


The Opposite of Amnesia

by yuffiehighwind



Series: An Eternity in Cheese Country [22]
Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Explicit Language, F/M, Family, Flashbacks, Friendship/Love, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Milwaukee, Modern Era, Mortality, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Parenthood, References to Abuse, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2020-08-14 06:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20187478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuffiehighwind/pseuds/yuffiehighwind
Summary: Deimos and Discord get killed by Xena, then wake up in Milwaukee. That’s it, that’s the fic. Another Wisconsin chapter written for myself to fill in all the old blanks in this crazy story.After Chapter Two, this became a series of disconnected shorts, where I dumped every new idea so that I wouldn't keep posting them individually. Bounces around the timeline in no particular order, from Ancient Greece to 1990s America.





	1. Deimos

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the 'fic series "An Eternity in Cheese Country," and here's why - after they were killed by Callisto and Xena, the souls of Strife, Discord, and Deimos were reincarnated in the late 20th century into three humans named Steve, Veronica, and Dave.
> 
> Like in the original Greek myth, Aphrodite and Ares are the parents of Deimos and Phobos, even though Deimos is explicitly their cousin in TV canon. Phobos is not a character in the TV series.
> 
> Title is a lyric from the song “Centuries” by Fall Out Boy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deimos has the fight of his life, wakes up in Milwaukee, and reunites with Discord three times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation with Xena on the beach and the attack on Eve in the burning building happen during S5E22 of XWP, “Motherhood.” 
> 
> Scene fragments are from past chapters -  
July 1999, Cherile’s Office: [Reunion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171592)  
July 1999, South Shore Park: [We Oughta Buy You a Cadillac](https://archiveofourown.org/works/580048)  
September 1999, Milwaukee’s South Side: [Some Kind of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/587600)

_It’s a shame she had to miss this. _

That’s the thought that went through your head when you set Xena’s daughter Eve on fire, if you can remember much from the melee at all, throwing red orb after red orb in the humans’ direction. It wasn’t your fault Xena kept jumping and dodging, because by that point everything in the barn was in flames, the room dark and smoky and deliciously chaotic.

That was the best part, really. How fun it was.

You always thought if you had to go, you might as well go in style, as terrifying as the prospect became in the moment, seeing Hades lit up like a Solstice bonfire. He was always a serious god, even-tempered and stoic, but when faced with his own extinction he stepped up to the plate and fiercely fought beside the rest of you, harder and more determined than Athena.

Okay, maybe not more than Athena.

You thought you had Xena on the run until Hades fell to the ground screaming, his flesh burning and melting from the intense heat. Athena was shouting, Artemis was firing her bow, and you just backed them up with all the gusto you could muster, with shot after shot.

The fight was exhilarating, no two ways about it. And yeah, it was a shame Discord had to miss it.

The problem with recklessly throwing balls of fire around an easily flammable building made entirely of wood, was anything could go wrong, like being crushed to death by a very large, very heavy oxcart.

It was shocking how heavy it was and how weak your bones were. Inconceivable, that it flattened you on your back, your hand the only part of you stuck out from beneath the crushing weight. You flexed your fingers and grasped at nothing until your body stilled and everything went black.

It fucking hurt, the worst pain you’d ever experienced. It hurt so fucking much, and then it didn’t.

* * *

**April 1998**

You take a deep, gasping breath and your eyes fly open. The pain is gone, replaced by some other strange sensation. Are you…wet? A second ago the barn was an inferno, and now you’re lying on some grass, in a large empty field, rain falling on you from a clear blue sky.

_What just happened?_

You sit up slowly, disoriented by the abrupt change in location. You look around but can’t see far, eyes still adjusting and squinting in the bright light. Something is spraying a fine mist of water over you. Maybe it has something to do with irrigating the field you’re in. You never knew much about irrigation because you never thought much about farmers. They weren’t fun enough to mess with.

Is this the afterlife? And what kind of afterlife is this? It can’t be the Elysian Fields - you aren’t exactly eligible. You just gleefully set a terrified young girl on fire and felt perversely satisfied with the sight of her soot-covered cheeks and singed dress. Hades would have some other fate in store for you, but then again, Hades is dead too.

What happens to a soul when the God of Death dies? Hmm. Something fucked up, for sure, because now a human is walking over to you holding a long, narrow metal club, brow furrowed, looking annoyed.

“You’re gonna need to get off this property.”

The annoyed human is an old, fair-skinned man dressed in clothes you’ve not seen before, his eyes covered in dark glass lenses, and a white hat with a brim that shades his forehead. He’s leaning over trying to intimidate you. This is probably his farm, and like most farmers he doesn’t take kindly to strange men sleeping on it.

“Huh?”

_Good job, Deimos. Very eloquent._

“I said you gotta leave. We can’t have vagrants sleeping on the golf course.”

“Golf?”

“Are you drunk?”

It’s a rude response to an honest question, because you don’t know what in Tartarus is going on, what a “golf course” is, or where you are.

You’re still keyed up from your fight with Xena, but you’re a decent liar so you bite your tongue and calmly shrug. What else can you do but shout at him that a god can trespass wherever he likes? The man thinks you’re another human. You glance down at your body and you’re wearing blue pants made of a thick cotton fabric, and a black short-sleeved shirt beneath a larger, unbuttoned long-sleeve shirt made of a tartan wooly material. Two flat shoes with white bottoms are tied to your feet with laces. You’re certainly dressed the part.

You force an awkward smile and remain sitting despite his impatient gesture for you to stand up. Wiping your wet face with one hand, you subtly squeeze your thumb into your other palm and imagine teleporting elsewhere. It isn’t working. Why isn’t it working?

“Come on, come on, get up,” he says gruffly, and you comply, brushing loose grass off your legs, which are also wet. A small device is spraying misty water in a wide, rotating circle nearby, irrigating the soil, but you’re not on a farm. Your eyes have adjusted to the light and you can see you’re standing in a wide, open space of trimmed green grass, and there are men across the field using the narrow metal clubs to hit small balls into holes. Oh, the field is for playing some sort of ball game.

Two more men drive over in a shaded, horseless cart to see what all the fuss is. If you weren’t a god, you’d find it terribly strange, but you’ve seen much stranger things than horseless carriages. It must be propelled by either magic or some hidden contraption within. Probably some new-fangled contraption, ‘cause these guys don’t look like wizards, and humans keep thinking of new stuff all the time.

One of the new guys ask, “What seems to be the problem?”

“This kid here was sleeping on the course and now he’s just leaving.”

The new guys narrow their eyes at you, appraising your appearance and sending you bad vibes. You stand up and keep snapping the fingers hidden behind your back. You still can’t teleport.

“Hehehe,” you chuckle nervously, and wow, that surging confidence you felt back in the barn with Xena has drained right out of you now your magic doesn’t work. You always were too dependent on your magic.

“I’ll just…ahem…I’ll just be going now.” You take a few steps back, then turn and start walking quickly off the field towards the buildings in the distance. How fucking embarrassing.

You pass a sign that reads “Lake Park Golf Course,” and you’re pretty sure it’s in a language you don’t know but are able to read perfectly. Then again, you never really put that ability to the test. You’ve never left home before, and it took getting crushed to death to get you outside your comfort zone. That’s fucking embarrassing too.

Your day only gets more confusing from there. You’re bewildered by the horseless, metal carriages zooming up and down the city’s tar-paved streets, can hear music blasting from unseen places where you see no musicians, and busy humans are swiftly walking up and down stone pathways alongside the road. They duck in and out of shops and restaurants and look pissed off or happy or everything in between, and it’s not so different from the cities back home, except the fact it feels different in every way. Also you’re hungry and tired. Since when are gods hungry and tired?

Oh, no. You’re mortal.

* * *

By the end of the day, things start to seem vaguely familiar, like some information has been slowly pumped into your brain with all sorts of odd details, like how your pants are called “denim jeans.” Your overshirt is made of flannel, and the springy material on the bottom of your shoes is called rubber. The shoes themselves are called sneakers, and maybe they’re good for sneaking? Lots of objects have names just because. It’s like that in every language, and nobody remembers why things are called the things they’re called.

The windows are all made of transparent glass, and you spot your reflection in the light. You look just as shitty as you feel. The short white hair you were rockin’ is a slightly longer dirty blonde. It’s so mussed up it looks like a bird’s nest, and dark circles under your eyes betray how exhausted you feel. The nap on the golf course was no refreshing nap at all. You were quite literally dead, so it probably doesn’t count. The fight with Xena sapped all your energy, which you didn’t expect to happen because gods don’t need rest, they bounce back after a quick five-minute break, ready to go another decade without sleeping.

Your stomach grumbles, and you search your pockets for money, praying to that old bag Nyx you have enough for a small meal. Thank Nyx you do, but barely enough for a sandwich and you can’t afford a drink. The server offers free water, though, so long as you stay seated.

It’s all an uphill battle from there, because without your magic, you’re stuck winging it. And winging it here is very different from winging it back home, because this city is huge and everything you need is expensive.

Little tidbits of memories that aren’t yours start arising, and it would be disconcerting if it wasn’t so helpful. But you’re itching to get back and see what happened to your family, to get revenge on Xena not just for their deaths but your own. And for the fun of it, of course. Every little annoyance here sparks a burning desire to punch someone and just keep punching. Violent urges you gotta keep in check, and it’s so tiring to hold back, when you used to set fires and it wasn’t a felony.

* * *

**July 1999, Cherile’s Office**

It’s been sixteen months since you started living like a human, doing lots of loving and lots of learning and gradually enjoying being mortal, which is so fucking embarrassing you could die a second time. To be fair, you spend most of it drunk or high, whether on pills or just the music and sex, vandalism and larceny. You have a girlfriend and can’t remember how that happened or why, but she puts a roof over your head and that’s good enough.

It’s been sixteen months since you had the thought, “_It’s a shame she had to miss this_,” and here she is at last. Discord’s eyes widen and she says, “You!” like it’s so fucking offensive to be in your presence and not an answered prayer. It’s proof all this was real, because if it were a dream or the afterlife, she wouldn’t be excruciatingly bending your arm back just for pinching her ass. After a bit of playful banter, you had to test if she was really Discord.

Now your girlfriend Cherile and her boss Dennis are calling Discord a bitch, which should be insulting but is just fucking funny.

"You haven’t told me why you're in Wisconsin," you say in wonderment, grinning wide and just so happy to see her miserable face.

"It’s a long, long, painful story and I hope a bus hits you before I get a chance to tell it to you."

_Ouch. _

Cherile pulls you away for your movie date, but she’s oddly unattractive tonight for the sweet little thing you’ve been banging for months.

“Jealous yet?” you ask Discord with a smirk.

“Fuck you,” she says with a glare, so you reply cheekily that you already did. Standing behind her, Dennis wears his own smirk. He thinks it’s funny too.

* * *

**July 1999, South Shore Park**

Discord wears her hair straight these days, instead of frizzed to holy hell, and you like brushing it out of her eyes and playing with it while you sit in the shade under a tree. She lets you, despite your tense reunion, and she hasn’t let you do it in a very long time. Discord is lying next to you in the grass with her eyes closed, and when her face is relaxed and not scowling at you, she’s as beautiful as she was in your bed twenty-six years ago.

For a few years before the Twilight, you didn’t have sex or interact much at all. Life was uneventful for the God of Terror and Goddess of Discord, and you rarely crossed paths. Things weren’t weird or strained, you just didn’t talk about it. You’d spent over two decades not talking about it, occasionally having fun and only tacitly being a couple.

But it was revealed that Xena was alive, having merely been frozen. Discord’s thoughts became consumed with killing the warrior. Something you were totally into one hundred percent. It’d be great, it’d be fucking fantastic, you two would be heroes!

You consider maybe Discord blames you for encouraging her, even though you’re the one who tried to stop her on the beach. (Though you fired the very first shot and the one that may have killed Poseidon. That could be what bothers her too.)

It wasn’t devastating watching her die or anything. You had bigger concerns at the time. Honestly, after silently pleading, “_No, please, don’t, stop!”_ and the initial horror of seeing it happen, all you could think was, “_Holy shit, I could be next.”_ Then you wondered, along with everybody else, “_This is really weird. How did Xena do that? It makes no sense.”_ Then it was just twelve hours of non-stop, “_Killing this bitch is gonna be a hell of a lot of fun!”_

The first time you missed Discord after the Twilight was months later, making out with a woman in a nightclub who looked just like her. She looked so much like Discord, you could have sworn it was her and she was gonna say, “It’s me, asshole,” any second. She didn’t, so you just imagined it was her instead, but then she did some stuff in bed that Discord would never do, and the fantasy ended.

Today, the real Discord subtly leans into your touch, taking your mind back to the night before the beach, when you cupped her face in your hand and kissed her and she wouldn’t kiss you back. It seemed right at the time, a nice pre-battle bang. No pressure, just having a good time with a friend, but maybe it felt too much like a goodbye. Discord sternly told you, “Keep your eyes on the prize,” meaning Xena’s bloody, mutilated heart, but instead it was Discord’s own head in the sand. So much for prizes. You forget if you left Discord’s body there to rot, or if she vanished into the ether like Poseidon.

Discord asks why you came to find her, and you tell her you died and didn’t have a choice. It’s an honest answer but doesn’t satisfy her curiosity. 

“I’m my own man now!” you say, when Discord suggests you merely need her help. “I don’t need you, or anybody.” That’s only partly true, because you need Cherile in a big way. You want Discord in a bigger one.

“Do you miss it?” she asks about living as a god, and oh boy, do you ever! Life was so much easier with powers, traveling instantaneously and having everything you wanted. Nobody could question your authority, no humans at least. Every tool, every weapon, every food, every drink at your fingertips. Teleporting! God, you miss teleporting so much. Public transport is the worst.

That’s not the answer Discord’s looking for either.

* * *

Xena’s there, right there, and it’s such a joyous moment to stand alongside your cousins and shoot her in the fucking face.

None of you expect Poseidon to go down. You don’t know whose blast it is that Xena deflects. Is it yours? It might be yours. It’s insane seeing the ancient god dissolve, the most insane thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Discord’s been standing just behind you to your right this whole time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. You and Hades shoot orbs, Artemis fires her bow, while Hephaestus wields a throwing axe and carries massive chains. Discord is the dumb bitch confronting a chakram-throwing warrior with a sword.

You really do try to stop her, but Discord’s the kind of person who thinks a thought, acts on that thought, and then deals with the repercussions later. But clearly something crazy is going on, because gods are dying. You could probably grab her wrist instead of just thrusting out your arm, but she’s already pushed past you and she’s gone. Running across the sand with her torso completely open, never bothering to learn defensive stances because what blade could kill a god? To be fair, you never learned either.

* * *

**September 1999, Milwaukee’s South Side**

You set off the sprinklers at Cherile’s concert with a lighter and dash outside through an emergency exit, stumbling arm in arm down the street drunk on tequila, laughing about stupid humans. You’ve both faked it for so long, sixteen long months without someone who understands, without someone who was there. Her perfect head is still perfectly attached to her shoulders, and you must be really fucking wasted, because she’s so, so, so beautiful.

It was fun, you tell her, in the end. In the fire, in the flames, until Hades started burning and shit got real. It was nice being needed, you tell her, and you’re sure Discord gets it, because that day was the first time Athena recruited you two for anything.

You tell her the fight was amazing and it’s a shame she had to miss it.

* * *

Discord is petite so she’s usually on top, but right now she’s pinned beneath you with her legs around your waist. It feels like it’s been ages since you were last inside her, and she’s so tight you could die all over again.

You can describe everything that happened while calmly sitting in a Starbucks or under the trees in South Shore Park, but instead you tell the story while you’re fucking her, so you can punctuate every detail with deep thrusts of your hips. Discord’s a compassionate human, but was a vicious goddess, and there’s still something about people in pain that gets her heart pounding.

If Discord had been there that night, maybe you would have won.

Nah, she’d have gotten you both killed faster, but she doesn’t need to know.


	2. Discord and Strife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discord dies recklessly, then meets another ghost.

“You sure you wanna take _that?”_

You grip the sword in your right hand and playfully point it at his chest.

“I need something that can cut out Xena’s heart.”

Tomorrow the gods have their final planning meeting, but tonight you’re standing with Deimos on a high balcony on Olympus overlooking the clouds. He furrows his brow and it’s irritating how worried he looks. He’s seen you fight. You’re not inept with a sword.

“That sounds delightful,” he says with a hint of sarcasm, “but you have short arms and you’re better off using magic.”

“Excuse me?” you say, thoroughly insulted he’s using your height in an argument. Not that it’s an argument, because he’s calmly leaning on the balcony’s railing with his arms crossed, matter-of-factly giving you practical advice.

“You’re a good shot, but you’re gonna get your ass kicked if you go within ten feet of her.”

Stepping closer, you angle the blade towards his throat.

“Say that again.”

Deimos sighs in exasperation.

“Fine, take it to dismember her. But when we get there, stand back and shoot with me, and just keep shooting.”

That’s his cowardly strategy for every fight. You roll your eyes, lowering your sword. You rest it against a pillar, having forgotten to bring a scabbard. You could conjure and equip one, but there’s something comforting about carrying it, feeling the weight of the sword in your hand.

“Let’s just wait and see,” you reply, because Poseidon is the planner and you two are the backup. Thrilled to be invited on this mission of murder, you both immediately agree to be on the front lines. Hades, Artemis and Hephaestus are the “real” muscle, but you and Deimos will show them who are best at quashing prophecies and saving Olympus.

This concession appeases him, because he shrugs, and his expression relaxes. Deimos has never been very successful at challenging your decisions, though it doesn’t stop him from voicing his opinion. He chews his lip, another thought seeming to form under that spiky white hair. His hair is white these days.

“What is it?” you ask sharply, expecting more unwelcome criticism, but he tilts his head and gives you a gentle look he hasn’t in years, and uh-oh, he’s walking towards you now. You turn away and gaze up at the stars, because you don’t want an affectionate God of Terror right now. You want – need – a vicious one who won’t let you down on the battlefield.

“So, Discord,” he starts to say, reaching for your cheek. He smiles softly and probably means to sound casual, but the implication you’re imagining is making you uncomfortable.

“Tomorrow’s a big day,” he says. “I was thinking maybe we could, I dunno, do something to pass the time together.”

Why is your heart beating faster? It’s not arousal, it’s something else.

“Just you and me,” he says, and by Nyx, he needs to stop looking at you with those big, fucking dumb, sky-blue eyes. He needs to cackle shrilly or pull a stupid face, and not sound like he’s saying—

Deimos leans down and kisses you, and though you haven’t done it for a while, his lips feel the same as always. You remain still and don’t kiss back, even though part of you wants to. This is a distraction and there’s plenty time for kissing later, once Xena and her daughter Eve are dead.

He stops, noticing your lack of response, and doesn’t look confused or push the issue, he just frowns in disappointment. Deimos steps back and clears his throat, awkwardly fiddling with his rings, then glances everywhere but your direction.

“Keep your eyes on the prize, Deimos,” you sternly tell him, hard edge to your tone. “No distractions.”

“Okay, sure, got that,” he mutters. “Look, I’m gonna take off for a bit. I’ll meet you all here in the morning.”

With that he snaps his fingers and teleports away.

The last thing you need to do before a battle is make love with a guy who thinks you might not make it.

Make love, not fuck. As embarrassing as that is, that’s probably what it would feel like. You’ve fucked so many times, in so many ways, over just a couple decades, that both of you know how it looks to an outsider, while you’d never use those words for it yourselves. But Deimos was just looking at you so affectionately, that yeah, fucking wouldn’t be the right word for it. And yes, it is really distracting.

Besides, this isn’t goodbye. That’s impossible.

* * *

Deimos wasn’t wrong about the sword, though you’re still in denial it was foolish to bring one.

The five of you lined up on the beach - you, Deimos, Hades, Hephaestus and Artemis - scattering a scared group of humans to directly confront Xena, Eve and Gabrielle. Wrapped in a brown shawl, the warrior princess pulled out a sword and held it high, twirling it in her wrist. Her other hand pulled out her chakram. She was ready and eager to fight.

Xena and Gabrielle shielded their grown-up daughter Eve, who had been a bloodthirsty tyrant only days earlier. But the girl had repented, and her continued existence now threatened Olympus.

(The gods realized later that the prophecy had predicted things backwards. Eve couldn’t kill gods, her mother could.)

Things went south pretty fucking quick, because Deimos shot first.

It clicked that something was wrong when Xena deflected his shot with her sword. There was nothing special about her sword, it was just a normal hunk of metal that his orbs should have been able to melt. Deimos shot again, along with Hades, and both orbs bounced off her blade, exploding in the sand behind them. Artemis fired off some arrows and Hephaestus prepared to throw his own weapons, but Hades and Deimos continued shooting orbs at Xena until she deflected them again and one of them went flying off the coast. Poseidon floated there, his massive body built entirely of water. He held a towering trident that dwarfed the tallest building and pointed it in Xena’s direction.

At this point you were growing impatient, the sword feeling heavy in your hands. When could you launch your own attack on the warrior? Deimos was standing in front of you, or you were standing behind him. Which was worse? A protective boyfriend, or a cowardly Goddess of Discord?

You could drop the sword and shoot your own electric magic or do something clever like teleport behind Eve and stab her in the kidneys. But you were out of practice, and this fight was unprecedented.

Either Deimos or Hades or both fired shots and Xena deflected them again straight at Poseidon.

You still don’t know who to blame and wonder if it really matters.

Poseidon was hit in the chest, and you’d think the massive ocean god was human the way he keeled over, like an arrow had pierced his heart. The god dissolved, his watery body losing form and falling back into the ocean. His crown and trident sunk beneath the waves and vanished.

The ocean is a vast, powerful entity all on its own, even without a god to rule it. Deep and mysterious and awe-inspiring. Your uncle had been nearly as old and nearly as powerful as the water itself. You couldn’t remember a time he wasn’t there. You still have trouble believing he isn’t.

The phrase is overused, but there was no other way to describe it. Poseidon’s blue body disintegrated and all you could see was red.

There was nothing, nothing but you and Xena on that beach. Your siblings, your uncle, your boyfriend. Boyfriend? Eve, Gabrielle, and were those the Furies standing behind her? Everyone faded from your vision and you had a single, narrow focus.

You didn’t think, you didn’t need to think, you just raised your sword and ran straight at Xena. She had to die, she had to hurt. At the very least, you needed to strike her, with a slash or a stab, and draw any blood at all.

It would feel so good, so cathartic, just to get a single swipe.

You never learned defensive stances. What blade could kill a goddess?

* * *

**April 1998**

You wake up lying on your stomach, to a deafening, horrible, ugly noise in your ears, and—

Oh, that’s you screaming.

You also feel like you’re falling. Dizzy, like the sky is spinning. You’re recovering from nausea, and maybe that’s why you’re on your stomach. But since when did gods get nauseous?

You turn your head and take a deep breath. Your throat burns. When you swallow, there’s throbbing pain. At least you’re lying on something soft. It feels like grass or soil in a garden.

The dizzy feeling passes, and you groan. The soreness in your throat dulls as well. You raise yourself up on your elbows and look around. It’s getting dark, like twilight, and how fucking appropriate is that?

It’s hard to see much in this garden, because you’re surrounded by some bushes, nowhere near the beach at all. That’s probably a good thing, because you’re pretty sure you just got killed, and in a humiliating way. You’re not sure about the details, but Deimos was clearly right about the sword.

_Ugh_.

You roll over on your back, still too light-headed to stand. You shut your eyes and take some more deep breaths, trying to slow your racing heart. You don’t wonder why you need to breathe even though you were just a goddess and now you’re a dead one. Neither gods nor ghosts need oxygen, but it seems like it helps.

When you finally open your eyes, you feel such relief it’s embarrassing.

“Deimos!”

He could be dead too, or perhaps he saved you. It’s likely the former, knowing Deimos, and knowing now what Xena is capable of.

Deimos is smiling at you fondly, but as soon as you say his name, he frowns. His brow furrows and he looks confused. Perhaps a little disappointed. He grasps each of your hands and assists you to your feet.

“It’s good to see you again, Discord,” he says, like it’s been years and not minutes. Oh no, time is all fucked up when you’re dead.

“Where are we?” you ask.

“Oh, boy,” he mutters. “That’s a long story. What’s important is you’re safe.”

You let go of each other’s hands, and you look up to smile thankfully. Then it hits you how _seriously_ fucked up time is when you’re dead.

He looks…older. He’s also wearing plain blue pants and a green shirt under an open black leather jacket.

He’s also not Deimos.

“Strife?” you ask in disbelief. You thought the breathing would slow your heart, but now it’s picking up speed again. This is wilder than seeing Poseidon turn to foam.

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling, with a little wave. “It’s me.”

“But you died,” you say, and he gives you a look that says, _Well obviously so did you._

“This is crazy,” you say, despite much crazier things happening today than seeing a ghost. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

You reach out to grasp his hands again. You almost throw your arms around his waist, in fact, and hug him tight, then remember things got hostile between you towards the end. After a half-assed sort of double handshake, you let go and step back to appraise his appearance. His skin is still fair, with black hair, but it’s cut short and styled more neatly, when it used to always need a comb. He looks healthier than he did before, with a rosier complexion more resembling a human’s than the pale-skinned God of Skirmishes.

Strife puts his hands in his jacket pockets, and he tilts his head, still giving you a confused look despite being the man here to guide you through the afterlife. Even if he’s not subbing for Charon, he’s still family, and owes you some answers about what the fuck is going on.

“Why’d you think I was Deimos?” he asks, and you remember Strife didn’t know him very well, nor did he ever see you interact with him. And it’s probably disappointing for your own mother to mistake you for someone else.

“Uh…he was just…”

You gesture vaguely behind you, towards the bushes, because that’s where he was standing moments ago. He had his arm thrust out in front of you, between you and Xena, but didn’t do much more than wave for you to stop. You brushed past him easily. He could’ve grabbed your wrist, but you’d probably have broken his arm to run towards her anyway.

At a loss of what to say and how to explain, you cross your arms, then wrap them around yourself. It’s getting cold. You’re wearing a short, sleeveless red dress with your long hair tied back, and black leather ankle boots.

“He was just next to me. We were fighting Xena.”

The sky is getting darker.

“Strife,” you say softly, “I haven’t seen you in a very long time.”

Strife asks curiously, apprehensively, “How long is a long time?”

You shrug.

“Thirty years. More, if you count the years we weren’t speaking.”

Strife sucks in a breath. He seems surprised, and a little sad.

“How long has it been for you?”

“Five years,” he says. “More if you, ya know, count those years we didn’t talk.”

Reminded of your falling-out, comforting a dear friend after her traumatic experience has now turned into awkward dead air.

“Yeah,” you say, rubbing your arms. “A long time.”

“You’re cold,” he says, finally recognizing the fact you’ve been shivering. “Let’s head to the car and I’ll take you back to my apartment.”

“What’s a car?” you ask. “Like a carriage?”

“Uh…something like that.”

You walk out of the bushes and see you’re in a city park. Massive buildings full of glittering lights stand tall in the distance.

“Oh,” you say, dumbstruck by the sight.

“Hey, uh, fun fact. Ya know lightning?”

You snort. “Of course.” You curl your palm and try to create some. It isn’t working. Maybe that has to do with being dead.

“The humans have harnessed the power of lightning and call it electricity. They use it to power their cities. Pretty cool, huh?”

You say, “Uh, yeah. Hang on a second…”

A large metal contraption you can’t describe better than “horseless carriage” is parked on the side of the road. Strife opens one of its doors and motions for you to climb inside. You’re a goddess, so there are weirder things you’ve seen than metal machines used for transportation. You decide to just go with it. Strife climbs in another door to sit beside you. He inserts a small key into a hole located somewhere among the machine’s odd-looking panels. He uses a combination of his feet and hands to get the machine rolling down the street. He controls its direction with a wheel in his hands.

In your honest opinion, Strife wasn’t always very trustworthy, not because he’d willingly betray you, but because he wasn’t good at most jobs. You have little choice now but to trust him, and that he won’t crash your carriage at the high speed he’s driving down this long, black road.

“Strife, what do you mean humans use lightning to power the city?”

Your stomach grumbles. Your palms are sweaty. Your throat still feels scratchy and you feel very, very tired. The high speed of the car is making you feel dizzy again.

“Strife--”

“Discord, I hate to break it to you like this, but you’re mortal.”

“What?”

“You’re mortal, we’re living in a human city, we’ve been dead for two thousand years, our souls time traveled, and now we live in Wisconsin.”

“What?”

“In my own linear timeline, Callisto killed me five years ago. I’ve been living in Milwaukee since 1993. Some immortals I met here told me you and some other gods would show up in 1998, so I figured out where you’d be and drove there to pick you up when you woke.”

“What the fuck, Strife?”

Your voice’s volume has grown louder and louder with each repetition of _“What?”_ and _“What the fuck?”_

“Nyx fucking damn it!” you scream, scared by the lunacy he’s spewing. “Pull over!”

“I can’t do that, Discord. ‘Cause you’re gonna get out of the car and start yellin’ your head off, and a buncha people are gonna come see what’s going on, and it’ll cause a scene, and I do not need that shit in my life right now.” He briefly turns his head to glare at you. “I’m doing you a favor.”

You screech, “Ugh!” and sit back, shut your eyes and let the boy drive. He’s right, because impulsive decisions keep fucking you over today.

You travel in grumpy silence for a while. Because he can’t help himself, he says, sounding offended, “Deimos, really?”

“Oh shut the fuck up.”

* * *

It’s a busy month, adjusting to the new circumstances you’ve been handed. It’s a busy first day, in fact. You need to get one thing out of the way, first, because it’s the blonde-haired elephant in the room.

When Strife says he found out dead gods were waking up, he clarifies he isn’t sure who. All he researched was how to track down you, and you alone, because you were the only one that mattered to him. Ares is alive, he assures you, and so is Aphrodite, and they’re both still powerful immortals. Everyone else’s whereabouts are iffy, he says, because over two thousand years have passed and countless deities have come and gone, depending on the region or the continent or the religion or the belief. All he knows for sure is several Olympians died the same day you did, killed by Xena - Hephaestus, Hades, Deimos, Artemis and Athena.

“Deimos is dead?”

“Yeah.”

_That stupid sonofabitch_.

“Discord?”

_That stupid fucking idiot loser._

“Discord, are you crying?”

You wipe your eyes with the throw blanket Strife’s handed you. He’s offered you his bed, but you take the couch.

“So what if I am?” you say, sniffling. “Today was insane! I just watched Poseidon dissolve, got killed, turned mortal, and traveled centuries through time to crash on my dead son’s couch in a human city where I've been overcome with human emotions.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a slight smile. “But you were always this emotional.”

You lightly smack his arm. The tears have stopped. Until you picture Deimos again. Stupid human brain.

“It doesn’t matter, he had it coming.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Strife replies.

“He did.”

“You got yourself killed too,” he teases. “What was so special about him to make you this upset?”

_I loved him._

You shrug casually, clear your throat and flatly answer, “We were fucking.”

Strife laughs.

“Are you serious?”

You laugh along with him.

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“Don’t tell anybody,” Strife says, stage whispering, “but I fucked him too.”

You loudly gasp, though you’re not really shocked. Deimos would fuck anyone. So would Strife, for that matter.

“What?” you say, faking exaggerated disbelief.

"It's true." Strife raises his beer, saying, "Let's make a toast to Deimos."

Swallowing your grief, you lift your own. The first thing you did in your new apartment was break open all the alcohol.

“A toast,” you say cheerfully, clinking your bottles together. "To Deimos."

A few weeks later, a song on the radio reminds you of him, and you smash your bathroom mirror with your fist until it cracks, bits of glass lodging themselves in your knuckles, so that you can’t see your own stupid, fucking ugly, crying face.

Strife rinses off the glass, wraps your hand in a bandage, and takes you to the ER to get stitches. 

He doesn't ask why you did it, and you're not sure he'd understand if he did.


	3. July 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discord is reunited with Deimos. He wants to be together again, but Discord isn't so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These scenes are actually word-for-word rewrites of [Reunion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171592) and [We Oughta Buy You a Cadillac](https://archiveofourown.org/works/580048).

A storm of hurt, betrayal, rage and a hint of cynically ironic amusement swirls in Discord’s gut when her boyfriend’s wife charges through the waiting room and out the exit. Discord is standing stupidly – blindsided by her very existence, clutching a boxed Caesar salad she brought for Dennis in one hand - next to Cherile’s desk and steps aside to let the woman sweep past. Dennis follows his wife to the door but stops short of running after her.

Dennis waits a moment before turning, looking guilty – and he fucking should – when he awkwardly asks Discord, “So, Veronica, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

"I thought I’d surprise you," Discord says, today’s visit a totally new, human “girlfriend” thing she wanted to try, only for it to backfire in her face, like everything. Like always. She shoves the salad into his hands. "But I see the picture now."

Cherile watches curiously, no indication that she’s remotely uncomfortable about this fucked up situation. Discord hears her gum snap.

She heads for the door, but Dennis blocks her path.

“Uh, no,” he says, eyes desperate for her to stay. “You don’t have to leave.”

Discord frowns and says firmly, “Oh yes, I do.”

“No, please, don’t,” he says, and Dennis begging is a new look on him. His wife must have just dumped him for cheating, and he must be willing to divorce her as well, because the idea of Discord leaving him too is freaking him out.

Discord scoffs. “’Please?’”

Dennis takes a deep breath, and more calmly - more professionally, like a proper doctor and not a fuckup adulterer - he says, “Thank you for the salad. You didn’t have to go to the trouble.”

Discord thinks of the actors from last night’s party crashing in her living room - who she told she was stepping out to grab breakfast for, getting her boyfriend lunch instead.

“Don’t worry, I stole it,” she says, smirking.

It’s technically true. A hungover William Shatner had blearily looked at her and handed her his credit card before rolling over on the couch and going back to sleep.

"Stole it?" Dennis asks, the salad still held in his hands, like he wouldn’t know what to do with them without it.

"It’s Shatner’s,” Discord says, matter-of-factly, and the three of them banter back and forth about why on Earth she’s suddenly acquainted with the celebrity. They’re not in Los Angeles, they’re in fucking Milwaukee. The odds of running into him were slim to none, never mind getting him and his entourage into attending a party at Strife’s apartment.

"Cherile, can you give us some privacy?" Discord asks, wanting to discuss Dennis’ marriage and whatever the fuck happens next, instead of why she suddenly has an actor’s credit card, like that fact fucking matters.

"This is my office," Cherile says, eyes narrowed, clearly unhappy the pair are bickering by her desk at all. She gestures to Dennis’ office. "Go in there for privacy." To Cherile’s relief, somebody enters who lights up her face – she smiles ear to ear, Discord and Dennis forgotten. “Oh, my boyfriend’s here!”

Discord gives zero shits. She’s still glaring at Dennis.

“Fuck you.”

With a sigh, Dennis replies, “Already did, regretfully.” And that fucking hurts.

He’s still holding onto the salad when Cherile’s boyfriend comes over, blurting out the obvious.

“Wow, Caesar salad!” the man says, almost childishly, and the couple must be heading for lunch soon, because why else would a stranger get this excited over someone else’s food?

Discord looks up and is shocked at who’s eyeing her boyfriend’s lunch. He sounds just like Strife, until he starts chuckling under his breath, the amusement bubbling beneath the surface that’s sure to build into a shrill cackle – or maybe not, maybe he left those tics behind – and the hair clearly gives away he’s a different long-dead relative Dennis told her never existed.

“It’s you!” Discord says - a little too loudly - and he smiles widely at her, openly pleased to see her. Discord’s gut is still churning with anger from her abrupt introduction to Dennis’ wife, and the sudden presence of Deimos does nothing to quell these intense emotions. Discord clenches her fist.

"You two know each other?" Cherile asks.

“Very well,” Deimos replies, still smiling, perhaps even wider in spite of Discord’s cold response.

“Regretfully,” Discord adds with a frown, and this dims his happiness a bit.

“Let me guess,” Dennis says, because he knows by now where this is going. “Another ‘relative?’” Discord can hear the airquotes.

“This,” Cherile says, hugging Deimos, “is Spike.”

Discord scoffs. “That freak’s name isn’t Spike, it’s Deimos.”

Cherile looks confused, while Deimos – smile unwavering, in spite of the insult – extends his hand for Dennis to shake.

“Dave Painterra’s the name, but everyone usually calls me Spike.”

One of these things isn’t surprising, and the other is just dumb.

“Or shithead,” Discord mutters, and Deimos cries, “Hey!” in offense. Finally, a negative reaction.

“His name is Deimos,” Discord repeats, more for Dennis than for Cherile, who wouldn’t understand the significance. Discord never told her, but Discord’s told Dennis everything.

Every detail must come flooding back, because Dennis grins.

“_The_ Deimos?” he says, and yes, fuck, it’s _that_ Deimos. The one she was in love with, like a sappy, romantic, fucking dumb cunt.

“You've heard of me?” Deimos asks curiously. Cherile laughs.

“Spike here’s an artist.”

Discord rolls her eyes. He’s wearing a red leather jacket and dressed vaguely punk, but also like he took several different styles and smashed them together. It doesn’t help the 90’s are a strange time for clothes to begin with.

“An artist, all right,” she says sarcastically. “What’s with the threads?"

“It’s fashionable,” Deimos insists, grasping his lapel and adjusting his jacket primly.

Discord, raising an eyebrow, replies, “To a blind harpy, maybe.”

"Not that this banter isn't interesting," Dennis interjects, and he’s still holding that goddamn salad, “but I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Veronica, and I'm curious--"

The namedrop confuses Deimos, who asks, “Veronica?” He recovers quickly, saying, “Oh, right! 'Veronica.' Long time, no see, Ronni.”

He laughs, but not shrilly, which Discord didn’t miss. Deimos embraces her in a sideways hug, which is another uncomfortable surprise that only adds to the hurricane of emotions Discord’s barely repressing. Deimos is wrapping his arm around her, his palm slowly gliding down her back to her buttocks like not a day has gone by since the Twilight and he can still pull that shit.

“Ronni here’s my cousin, see? We grew up together,” he lies. “We’re close.” He pinches her ass and says suggestively, "Real close."

Discord pulls from his grasp, grabs his arm and _twists_. Deimos cries out in pain, chanting, “Ow, ow, ow,” then a desperate, _“Ronni!”_

The sudden, intimate invasion of her personal space has called up memories she doesn’t want to be having right now. Not ever, not anymore.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” she snarls, “unless you want to lose your two best friends, and I am _not_ referring to Cherile and Dennis over here.”

She lets go of his arm, and the violent threat of castration sends Deimos’ hand protectively towards his groin.

Cherile is outraged.

“How dare you threaten him?” Cherile asks furiously. To Deimos, she says, “Don’t let her push you around. She’s just a whiney bitch.”

_"Excuse me?” _Discord says, because this situation is escalating, and her knuckles are itching to punch someone. Cherile has never disrespected her before, in spite of Discord’s months of disrespectful behavior towards the young secretary. Her good-natured, Midwestern patience has snapped. Discord can’t blame her.

Dennis reprimands her. "Cherile, that was out of line!" With a shrug, he adds, "But not untrue.”

This is turning into a fucking shitshow. How much abuse can Discord take in the span of only five fucking minutes?

“You’re _all_ asking for an asskicking as far as I’m concerned!” she shouts.

Despite the hostility, Deimos is still smiling at her. His eyes are shining with the same love and affection Discord saw the night before the beach, and that is unacceptable.

“You haven’t told me why you're in Wisconsin,” he says. 

"It’s a long, long, painful story," she replies bitterly. "I hope a bus hits you before I get a chance to tell it to you.”

Cherile is tugging Deimos away for a movie date, calling him cutesy nicknames, and he excuses himself, saying, “Well, folks, gotta go. The ole ball ‘n chain, you know?”

He kisses Cherile, wetly and disgustingly. Smacking his lips, he asks Discord, “Jealous yet?”

Discord sighs, exasperated, and shakes her head disapprovingly.

“Fuck you.”

Deimos laughs, and it almost strays into the high decibels she remembers. Cherile doesn’t seem to mind that or any of this, and Discord has a tingly feeling a love spell is responsible.

“You already did,” Deimos says with a grin, then points at Dennis. "Later, Denny!"

The couple exit, and Discord shuts her eyes. She lets out a disgusted noise, and wants to scream and scream about Dennis’ wife and her own ex-boyfriend. About the annoying actors on her couch, and finally settling into a normal partnership with Strife, after years apart, only for everything to become even more stupidly complicated by Deimos coming back from the dead.

“Thank you for the salad, Veronica,” Dennis tells her softly.

Discord shrugs. “It was nothing.” After another short silence, she adds, “By Nyx, I hate that boy.”

Dennis knows why. He knows every stupid fucking thing about her life at this point. Dennis is one of the only three people Discord’s trusted with her secrets – her sister Aphrodite doesn’t count, because the love goddess cheated and got Discord drunk first. Strife and Deimos are the only gods with whom she’s shared anything personal.

This isn’t strange, not really. Strife is her son. And Discord had rationalized that swapping secrets with Deimos was a kind of mutually assured destruction, not emotional intimacy. Deimos may have gotten her drunk too – or maybe Discord did that on her own - before pumping her for information about Ares, about the two thousand years Discord lived before he was born, about her feelings about Nemesis, about Hera, about Ares’ abusive love and Strife’s abrupt death. Discord repeated these secrets to Dennis because in Wisconsin she had nothing left to lose. And she still has secrets she needs to keep from Strife, but is bursting to share, to get off her chest, which is probably a human thing, because war gods were masters of repression. Dennis is a unique partner – just the one she needs - who acts like her mood swings are funny, who can calm her with a sarcastic comment, because that’s how war gods spoke to each other. Who after several months stopped calling her crazy with disdain and calls her crazy with affection.

Dennis has a shit-eating grin when he says, “Cousin, huh? Grew up together? Real close, by the sound of it.”

Discord rolls her eyes. The anger is melting away, either from his good-natured ribbing or because the people pissing her off have left.

“Oh shut the fuck up.”

Sarcastically, he says, “Wonderful taste in dress. That kid’ll blind a horse.”

Discord agrees, but she is too emotionally drained for joking.

“Ech, just drop the subject. I’m leaving.”

Dennis waves the salad side to side, asking, “Want the salad back?”

“No, keep it,” Discord says. “Good fucking riddance.”

The storm inside her is settling, but that doesn’t excuse Dennis hiding his wife from her. He even takes off his wedding ring. He’s good at remembering not to wear it, if he ever wears one at all.

Discord’s mind scans back, back, back across the months for any hint Dennis was married. Maybe he mentioned it the day they met, then never brought it up again. That’s probably what happened. That would explain why he wouldn’t go on any public dates with her. Discord always thought it was due to the scandalous nature of their union – her being his patient, him her doctor, oaths and rules broken, lines crossed. Discord is used to crossing lines.

She slams the door, just to be dramatic.

* * *

“I brought you lunch.”

Discord sweeps into Strife’s apartment – _their_ apartment - and plops a bag of donuts on their kitchenette’s counter. Strife sits up on the couch, craning his head over the back to look. Lying back down, he says, “Donuts aren’t lunch.”

“Weren’t you gonna eat with Dennis?” he asks, focused on the book he’s reading, and Strife reading books is still terribly fucking strange.

Discord rolls her eyes and mimes a gag, but Strife doesn’t see her disgust. 

“Fuck Dennis!” she exclaims, taking an angry sip of coffee, and fuck it’s hot. She grimaces and swallows the burning liquid.

“What’d he do this time?” Strife asks.

“His wife showed up.”

This draws his interest. Strife peers over the couch back with a look of disbelief.

“What?”

Discord takes one donut from the bag and takes a large bite. Mouth full, she says, “I know, right? It was a goddamn ambush.”

She wants Strife to empathize, but his furrowed brow makes her think he’s gearing up for a snide, _“I told you so,”_ and if he says that, well she really needs to fucking deck him. Thank Nyx he got Shatner’s entourage to vacate the premises while she was out, because those are some people she wouldn’t mind taking her frustration out on. Detritus from the previous night’s party still litters the apartment, and if some asshole remained that she could blame, they’d get a stern talking-to. Strife is probably on a break from cleaning.

Thankfully, Strife doesn’t say anything. He just gives her a look of sympathy, because they both slept with Ares, and the God of War pulled this shit on them all the time.

In fact, Strife waits patiently for her to elaborate, and Discord wonders if she should mention Deimos too, but the revelation he’s alive will change everything, and she only just got used to the new normal. It took over a year to adjust to this life, to try and follow Strife’s example. To stop being a war goddess. Discord thinks he should cut her some slack. He’s got four years on her.

Strife looks older now, like a proper grown-up, and this helped Discord adjust to him being a different person. If he’d had the same pale skin, gaunt features, fucked up clothes and messy hair, with the face of a young adult – and the vibrant, manic energy of a teenager - believing Strife had changed would have been a harder pill to swallow. But he died and came back, and whatever happened while he was here made him slow down and start looking at life more critically, acting less impulsively. Discord still can’t believe it, but Strife is fucking boring. What’s worse, is Discord needs his stable presence in her life. He’s the anchor that keeps Discord from self-destructing. At the very least, he puts a roof over her head. All she has to do is not get arrested again. Discord thinks she’s been doing pretty well.

“I swiped Shatner’s credit card,” Discord says, and Strife frowns but says nothing. She scoffs at his judgmental glare. “Okay, so he gave it to me,” she says defensively, which is the truth. “Asked me to buy him breakfast. But you know me,” she says with a grin, and Strife rolls his eyes. “I thought I’d be, ya know, a good girlfriend and bring my boyfriend some lunch.”

She knows Strife will resist every dark impulse and do some honest shit like mail the card back to the actor, but hopes he’ll find the reason for her con romantic. She could have bought so much more than salad, coffee and donuts with the thing – an account sure to have thousands upon thousands of dollars in available credit, if not more – but she resisted the temptation and bought the bare minimum. Surely that’s good enough for Strife. _Good thing it’s not Deimos with the card_, Discord thinks, because her two-minute interaction with her handsy, fashion-challenged nephew hinted the man hadn’t changed much.

“But...?”

“But I step into the office and _she’s_ there. Dennis is shouting, she’s screaming, Cherile gives _zero_ shits.”

Discord pauses, tempted to mention Deimos, and at the same time scared of Strife’s reaction.

“Then what?”

“Well, then she left.”

Strife gestures for Discord to continue, to provide more details. Discord sips her coffee, mind buzzing over the decision – tell him, or don’t tell him. The liquid is cooler now, but her tongue still feels slightly burnt.

“Cherile’s boyfriend showed up.”

Strife nods, and he never gave much shit about Cherile, probably because Discord never mentioned her. Cherile was a non-entity, present but unimportant. Rude, but no ruder than any other young human. Reminded Discord slightly of her sister, but dumb. Really, really fucking dumb. Aphrodite acted like a dumbass, but Discord knew she had millennia of knowledge buried under those mountains of blonde curls.

Strife said Aphrodite was still alive. Discord suspects she had something to do with why the secretary was dating Deimos.

“What is it?” he asks, because Discord keeps making breathy noises of almost-sentences, before shoving another donut in her mouth.

“Cherile’s—” Discord chews and chews, before swallowing the sweet dough and muttering, “Cherile knows Deimos.”

Strife looks confused, so Discord clarifies, “Dennis’ secretary is dating Deimos.”

“Huh?”

“Your cousin Deimos.”

Strife stands up, quickly approaching the kitchen counter. He tilts his head to the side and looks five years younger. A little more like himself, his eyes kind of wild, and Discord can’t tell if he’s happy or angry that Deimos is alive.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he says in wonder.

“I know right!”

Strife laughs - an old laugh that’s more familiar to her ears. He’s not as shrill as Deimos, but it's not as subdued as the new Strife’s chuckle. Discord’s anger dissipates and she can’t help but smile back.

“He’s alive?”

“Yes, that dumb fuck is alive.”

“Fuck.”

“He still has his memories,” Discord says, because that bit is important. Athena lost hers, and Discord still isn’t sure if the woman is her sister or not. Hearing her ramblings was terrifying, almost as terrifying as Strife telling her he feels like every second a piece of him is _dying_. Strife used those exact words, and Discord echoed them right back.

_“I struggle over it,”_ he had told her, _“wondering if it’s a good thing or not."_

_"I know,”_ she had replied. _“I know that feeling."_

“He still has his memories, _and_ his obnoxious personality,” Discord adds with disgust, though after thirty years, Deimos touching her so freely was something she was accustomed to. During one early interaction, he was so comfortably touchy that he even flung his arms around her, begging her for help with Hercules. The affection wasn’t too strange, since Deimos was her nephew - one of Ares’ sons who Discord had watched grow up. In fact, he was like a child clutching his parent, and she patted him on the head kindly – condescendingly – not unlike how she’d touch Strife were he hugging her.

Discord and Strife were affectionate before their falling-out, but Deimos was downright grabby. The touching really started when Zeus died, but later that same day he’d hugged her tight - burying his face in her abdomen, crying about needing help with his scheme while she patted his back comfortingly – Deimos had pissed her off so much she summoned all her strength to grab his neck and lift him into the air, high as her short arms would allow. The easy motion swept him off his feet, and his red face while he struggled filled her with sick satisfaction. Ares demanded they cease squabbling and threw them both aside, sending them tumbling to the ground. Later, Discord would use her telekinesis to cause Deimos even more physical and psychological harm for stealing her ideas and passing them off to Ares as his own. It was so very easy, manipulating Deimos’ body with magic, but so much more pleasing to hurt him with her bare hands.

Then Zeus died, and Deimos once again wrapped his arms around Discord- him comforting _her_, their roles now reversed - and the rest was history.

Strife doesn’t ask what makes Deimos so obnoxious or what pissed Discord off during her encounter with him and Cherile, probably because he remembers Deimos was an asshole.

“That’s good, right?” Strife asks, and Discord wants to ask what the fuck he means by that. Before she can speak, he clarifies, “That Deimos still has his memories?”

Discord looks at Strife like he’s demented.

“He’s family, and he’s back. And he knows exactly what you’re going through.”

Discord frowns, sipping her coffee. She idly taps her finger on the cup.

“And you don’t?” she asks.

Strife shrugs. They’ve talked about this. She needs no more explanation than that.

“You gonna see him again?”

Discord scoffs. “Eww, no,” she says. “He’s alive, he’s safe, he’s with that dumbass Cherile. That’s all I need to know.”

Strife leans on the counter, smirking about her blatant lie, Nyx fucking damn it.

“Seriously?” he asks. “You’re saying you don’t have questions?”

“What questions?”

“Like what happened after you died, or how he ended up in Wisconsin?”

“I assume same thing. Xena killed him, he woke up human. The end.”

“Isn’t it kinda odd that Deimos has a girlfriend?”

“Guy’s gotta get laid,” Discord says with a shrug. “Why not her?”

“For one thing, she's a girl.”

Discord narrows her eyes at him. Strife’s pansexual himself - most of the gods were. Yet they still found it strange when Deimos slept with women like Discord. Was he really that much more…gay?

Discord thinks back, trying to remember what Deimos was like beyond annoying as shit. His effeminate mannerisms never stood out to her more than his desperate, flailing attempts to be a war god like Ares. Also his psychotic love of setting shit – and people – on fire. People would call Deimos flaming, and they had no idea just how right they were, on several levels.

"And second, he’s Deimos,” Strife says, and that’s a better argument.

“I have a feeling,” Discord says, and there’s that strange flutter again, “that there’s some strange love magic affecting them. Because that girl was so smitten, and so sweet to him, that it gave me a toothache.”

Strife laughs. “I gotta meet this Cherile.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“Did you get his number?”

“Fuck no,” Discord says, taking another sip of her coffee. Because she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, she starts picking at the cup’s cardboard sleeve.

“Can _I_ get his number?” Strife asks, and Discord thinks he’s serious until she sees his smirk. Strife may have popped the kid’s cherry long ago, but he didn’t really know him. Discord thinks perhaps his motives are pure, and he’ll pull some shit like teaching Deimos how to be human, which Discord is barely passing herself. The kid needs to fucking cool it with the lessons. Lesson One: Be nice to people. Actually, that’s it, that’s all Strife’s ever taught her.

Deimos seemed nice earlier, so maybe he’s learned it the hard way. She wonders if he’s had run-ins with the law himself. If he hasn’t, she’d be shocked.

How long has he been living in Wisconsin? She hadn’t shared her experience with him, rudely shutting him down. She didn’t ask about his, but he didn’t look much older than the last time she saw him. Years haven’t gone by - not like they have for Strife. He’s probably been here a few months. Fuck, probably the same amount of time Discord has.

Sixteen months. She’s been living with Strife for sixteen months. Deimos has spent sixteen months alone.

Part of her hopes he’s encountered other gods, and maybe it’s worth seeing him, if only to learn more.

“Fine,” she says, “I’ll get his number. Or…or find him somehow, I don’t know. I’ll ask Dennis.”

“That requires seeing Dennis again.”

“Ugh,” Discord says with disgust, and she knows she needs to talk to her boyfriend about where they go from here, now his wife knows, because she doesn’t want to break up, not really, not yet. Dennis has become so much more relaxed, she’s sure he’d help her track down Deimos. It’s weird and makes her kinda sick, all this friendly shit, people helping each other out. Discord thinks she should be used to it by now.

“So, how are we getting Shatner’s card back to him?” Strife asks with a smile, taking the last donut and chomping on it thoughtfully.

“Ugh!” Discord lets out an even more disgusted, frustrated scream. “I knew you were gonna ask that. Why can’t we keep it a little longer? Why?”

Strife wipes powdered sugar from his lips and says, “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Discord stomps her feet. She wants to go home.

* * *

“Let me get this straight. A flaming—"

“Yeah.”

“Oxcart.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fell on you?”

“That’s pretty much what happened, yeah.”

Discord’s eye twitches, her hands squeeze her coffee mug, and a surging anger builds in her gut. She’s been nice so far, as nice as she can be to Deimos, but it’s bad enough she was killed in battle, struck down by Xena’s hand - the mortal that Heaven ordained the power to kill gods – and so much worse that Deimos died by accident. It upends all the rationalizations she’s made for the past sixteen months - why she had to die and how it was possible. Discord always thought Xena had been given some special power, some supernatural strength, but the fact is the Olympians were weakened that day. Some fucking angel magic made them mortal, and wasn’t that a kick in the balls?

Discord calmly says, “I thought Xena could only kill a god herself.”

Deimos takes a large bite out of a chocolate crème-filled donut and avoids direct eye contact.

Slightly louder, Discord says, “The downfall of the gods, and you got crushed by an oxcart?"

Mouth full, Deimos shrugs, looking around before signaling with his hand for the waiter. The kid wants to get the fuck out before Discord causes a scene. She’s not even sure why she’s angry at Deimos, who didn’t ask to be made mortal that day. It’s all the archangels’ fault, and why the fuck did she trust Strife’s asshole angel buddies after what that fucker Michael did? This shakes her entire understanding of the Twilight.

“The death of our family and a god - _a fucking god_ \- was killed--”

Deimos and the waiter exchange some hushed words, but Discord is staring furiously into her coffee.

_“--by a flaming, falling oxcart?”_

It’s built up so much, the dam is gonna burst. Discord throws her coffee in Deimos’ face and storms out, but they’ve been sitting and chatting in the diner for so long – at least until Deimos’ description of his stupid death – that the coffee has cooled enough not to scald him.

He quickly catches up to her outside the diner, grabbing her arm. Deimos is far too familiar and tactile even now. Rough touches, gentle touches – Discord wants to hug him and cry or stomp his face and scream. He just brushes the inside of her wrist with his thumb, as if a gesture so little can calm a hurricane like Discord, and it has to be something he does with Cherile. It feels strange, holding his hand. It always has.

* * *

That’s not the end of it, not nearly, because though she pulls away, he convinces her to go to the park, and to sit under a tree, with the argument it is sunny, warm, and they can watch people and make fun of them. Watch “humans,” Deimos says, not “people.” Strife doesn’t phrase it that way. He doesn’t distinguish himself or Discord from the rest of humanity.

“Humans are pretty funny,” Deimos says, and Discord wonders if anyone finds his phrasing strange, then pushes the thought aside and pretends they’re _them_ for once. She does correct him when he messes up Strife’s name, because Strife told her to call him “Steve,” and respecting people’s chosen name is something not only humans do, but gods would insist as well. “I’m the God of Terror now,” Deimos had told her, and when she scoffed, he acted offended, so Discord humored him. Because she was constantly asking to be Goddess of Retribution, even when no one would give her the title. It made her “funny in the head,” Dennis might say. Even drove her to attempted infanticide, though her motivations for _that_ murder were more complex than just wanting Nemesis’ job. The boy wants to be called Terror? She’s gonna call him Terror.

Discord explains they inherited their apartment from Strife’s ex-boyfriend Dimitri – a human, or demigod, or whatever the fuck - who Strife met five years earlier but left sometime before Discord showed up.

When she corrects him again that Strife goes by the name “Steve” now, Deimos asks, “You still got a thing for him?” She knows he’s joking, but her heart leaps to her throat anyway.

Discord’s relationship with Strife feels oddly intimate now they’re living together. The lack of more interesting activities like orchestrating murders and starting wars means her memory dredges up all kinds of awkward baggage, like their old love triangle with Ares. When she doesn’t think too hard about it – about what’s decent, proper, or normal – Discord just enjoys Strife’s company. It’s not a _thing_. The very implication is fucked up.

Discord lies in the grass smoking a cigarette while Deimos sits beside her, gently running his fingers through her hair, and this doesn’t seem strange to Discord because for a few years before the Twilight, they did dumb shit like this after sex. Discord would _try_ to leave immediately - to clean up and split, then go do some fun mischief or play a nasty prank, calling Deimos to scratch the itch in another five years - but as time went by, the more likely they were to lie in bed after. And the more likely she was to call him after only, like, five days. 

Discord is glaring at the tree branches, and Deimos follows her gaze.

He laughs, and says, “What, he’s a fuckin’ leaf?”

“Do you _ever _shut up?”

Deimos hasn’t been speaking much since the diner, so he rightly looks offended.

“Excuse me?”

“Why did you come find me?” Discord asks, as if he meant to walk into Cherile’s office that day, purposefully seeking Discord out. She still has a sense something larger is at play, that it couldn’t be a mere coincidence they’d be dating the same unprofessional professionals. Maybe he planned it. She kinda hopes he did.

“Didn’t have much choice,” Deimos says. “Kinda died.”

That’s not the answer Discord wants. She wants him to say,_ “Yes, I fucking came to rescue you from this hellhole, because you’re my fucking girlfriend. You’re welcome.”_ The Orpheus to her Eurydice. But no, he’s just as confused as she is as to why any of this is happening.

Discord puts her cigarette out on the tree trunk. Maybe he found her because he’s looking for money. Maybe he wants to use her. Maybe that’s why he’s dating Cherile, because he knew Cherile worked for Dennis. Maybe war gods like Discord don’t get romantic happy endings.

“You know what I mean,” Discord says, going with the money angle. She scoffs. “Are you really that naïve?”

Deimos stops touching her hair and looks even more offended than when she told him to shut up.

“Fuck, no. This isn't about you. I’m my own man now! I don’t need you, or anybody!”

“Good, that’s just what I wanted to hear,” Discord says, smiling slightly, and instead of leaping to his feet to storm off, indignant and proud, Deimos stays sitting just where he is. He’s glaring at her, but his hand is straying towards her body again, towards her long, messy black hair. Discord relaxes into the touch and closes her eyes. Deimos doesn’t want her money, but he still wants to be around her. She feels the affection, can see it in his eyes, and it’s so sickly sweet that her stomach lurches and she wants to vomit, but she can’t, because when his blue eyes sparkle, her brown ones shine back. It’s confusing.

She can’t resist asking, because when she asked Strife, she got a thoughtful answer. Discord is curious what his baby cousin thinks.

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Of course,” Deimos says, making a gesture like a spellcast. “The powers were really cool. Spells and shit. And I hate taking the bus.”

_Oh._

That’s a far cry from Strife’s poignant reply that he doesn’t know who he is anymore, or what pieces of him are still intact and which have been replaced by all new threads, a new identity. Strife misses his identity and Discord misses her immortality. The idea of dying again - this time permanently - fucking terrifies her, and Deimos’ revelation that the angels didn’t make Xena supernatural, they made the gods _mortal_ that day is scary, and upends Discord’s whole worldview. Not that Strife’s own death – not to mention Zeus and Hera’s – weren’t bad. But they had been killed by special weapons, whereas Deimos had been crushed by a shelf.

Deimos misses his power.

That’s pretty on-brand for him, and Discord should be able to relate.

“Ugh,” she says instead. “I can’t talk to you.” Teasing, Deimos runs a finger down her cheek, and she bats it away.

“Why ya say that?” he asks, honestly not comprehending, probably because her real question was veiled by an ambiguous pronoun. She didn’t ask if he missed immortality, she asked if he missed being a god. Being a god to Deimos was being powerful, not being eternal. He probably just took the latter as a given. He was young.

“You are a baby,” Discord says coldly. “You’re a baby in a man’s body. Always were. You never had a clue what you were doing or how life worked.”

The insult fails to piss him off, because he grins and says, “Neither did you.” Discord frowns and Deimos continues, “You asked why I came to find you. Well why, if you hate me so much, did you agree to see me?”

It’s a fair question. Strife had pushed her to seek him out, but she won’t tell Deimos that. Honestly, Strife was right. Discord wanted someone who understood her better.

“Oh, just come out with it, Discord,” Deimos says, teasing. “You like me.”

Discord makes a frustrated noise and confesses, “Yeah. Yeah, I do, even though you’re a self-centered, egotistical, conniving, back-stabbing, aggravating pain in my ass.”

“Discord, I'm the God of Terror,” Deimos says, by way of explanation.

“And you’re prone to being crushed by flaming oxcarts,” she adds.

Deimos just shakes his head, and he’s still amused and it’s still infuriating. The litany of insults has gone over like a bouquet of compliments.

“You've made your point. Now where’s that leave us?”

Discord stands up, gathering her purse and preparing to leave. Deimos grabs her arm and pulls her back down. There’s a flutter in Discord’s stomach not unlike butterflies when he does this, and of course his featherlight touches haven’t elicited this reaction, but his rougher ones do.

“That’s it?” he says in disbelief. “Finito? Ah revu?”

“That’s ‘au revoir’,” Discord corrects him. “And yes, what did you expect? Swelling music? An orchestra to pop out of my ass and the lights to fade out?”

“You've got no imagination, Discord. Nil.” Deimos forms a zero with his fingers. Discord rolls her eyes and gets up, then starts walking away. Deimos gets up and follows her.

“What’s your number?” he asks.

“None of your business.”

“Come on, what if I get into trouble?”

“You get yourself out of it.”

“Then what was this whole date about?” he asks, looking genuinely confused and disappointed. Discord stops walking and turns.

“Date?” she says, injecting as much incredulity as possible despite the transparent nature of their reunion. Of course it’s a date. Two ex-lovers got food, then cuddled and bantered in a city park on a sunny, summer day.

And Discord’s the one who sought him out after their chance run-in. Discord doubts it was by chance, and suspects her sister is somewhere nearby. Strife said she was alive but didn’t elaborate much more than that. Besides, Aphrodite is this idiot’s mother. Perhaps she’s here right now, spying on her wayward son and acting smug.

“Can I get your number or not?” Deimos asks, exasperated by Discord’s reluctance.

Defeated, Discord pulls a pen out of her purse. It’s a pen from her nightclub, though she doesn’t realize this until later, after she’s walked away and it’s too late to get it back. Deimos will probably show up and embarrass her at work.

“Here, write this on your hand,” she says, handing him the pen. Deimos giggles in triumph. “555-7821.”

“55…what was that third digit?”

“Five, you dumbass.”

“Oh yeah! And then—"

Discord starts walking away briskly, because she needs to end this encounter.

“Seven!” she calls over her shoulder.

“And then?” Deimos hollers.

“Eight, two, one!”


	4. The Deadliest of Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three men in Discord's life all touch her in different ways, and affection from her rival Deimos is the most baffling of all.
> 
> Three moments in time - Discord’s romance with Ares, her family bond with Strife, and a snapshot from her 25 years with Deimos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Deimos takes place during the time gap between S5E19 of XWP "Looking Death in the Eye" and S5E20 "Livia," and after "[Got Me Walkin' Side to Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306735)."

Ares doesn’t do anything in half-measures. You ask to get fucked by the God of War, you’ll get _fucked_ by the God of War – rough and unforgivingly. Discord knows he’d hold back if she were human, but she’s a fiery young goddess angling for his job who needs to be regularly put in her place. Discord can take it – she’s strong, nearly strong enough to give as well as she gets. Ares fucks her every way possible – softly and lovingly or fiercely and hatefully, and every way in between. He loves her, Ares says, but only as a sister – the worst possible way of letting her down easy. It’s fucked up, but technically Zeus is Hera’s brother too. Maybe that’s why their children are born freaks, loving blood and war and crossing every line.

But Discord loves Ares romantically – thoroughly and hopelessly. He’s her moon and stars for centuries until she takes a different divine lover – a few, in fact, after a party on Parnassus. Rejected by Ares for some reason or another, given the “it’s just sex” talk and finally sick of it. Red with humiliation, she’s not sure which god gets in her bed, so she’s not sure which god knocks her up. She decides to keep the baby, because maybe – just maybe – her son will be a better God of War.

She names her son Strife, and while Discord likes pain, she’s also starved for gentler touch. So they’re friendly and affectionate - shoulder touches, elbow nudges, handshakes and occasional hug. Normal family stuff, though there’s something more between them that’s slightly off and wrong, which Discord has no trouble burying, and Strife gets the hint and buries it too.

Once Strife’s old enough, conditioned into trusting “Uncle Ares” and hanging on his every word, Ares pulls the same romantic shit on him he did Discord, while keeping Discord at arms’ length as his regular female fuck buddy. Ares’ flowery promises are lies, but Discord envies Strife anyway. At least until he gets the full-on abusive treatment from her brother, but by then Strife’s so invested that there’s no escaping the God of War’s orbit. Strife always calls him “Unc” or “Uncle,” and the childish address combined with catching the boy sucking the war god’s cock turns Discord’s stomach and makes her want to punch Ares through a wall. 

If Ares is gonna fuck his nephew, then Discord is gonna do the same. Tit for tat, not that Ares cares. The God of War cares little for his son Deimos at all. And the real reason Discord even gives Deimos the time of day is because A) she’s lonely, and B) he looks like Strife.

Yeah, Discord loves every fucked-up thing a war goddess can do – killing and torturing humans, driving them insane, having nasty sex on battlefields and starting bloody wars. But she doesn’t cross the line with Strife, because it’s not only confusing but dreadfully wrong. And Deimos doesn’t look like him, not really, except for the same blue eyes. Maybe that’s what draws her – it’s not a sex thing, but familial. A comforting reminder of the semi-dysfunctional relationship that was the closest thing to love she ever had.

Strife’s dead and Discord’s not sure where he’s buried, and it kills her, but she insists it’s no great loss. Nobody can know how much she misses him, and nobody remembers why she would, other than Ares and Aphrodite. They’re parents too, and they have their own, similar blonde-haired brat.

* * *

Discord’s first real interaction with her nephew goes well and feels familiar, until he steals credit for her ideas. Then again, she wouldn’t have put it past Strife to pull the same shit. Maybe it bothers her because it’s more paramount than ever that Discord be next in the line of succession. She and Ares know gods can die, now. Callisto confirmed that with a knife to Strife’s gut.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when Ares picks his son over her, but the young god is such a jackass that Discord can’t contain her shock. She works hard to prove this and almost succeeds. She gets Hercules and Iolaus to help – her first and last resort to make Deimos look bad. After their battle for the Rock of Argius, it’s kinda fun to fight with him, though she pretends that it’s a chore. Ares calls them insufferable children and it hurts but he’s not wrong.

Deimos is uncomfortably touchy, though he may not actually notice. His hands are as familiar to Discord as his eyes, but the effeminate way he speaks and laughs and twirls his wrists are distinguishing differences between him and her son. Deimos clearly doesn’t swing her way, so she finds it strange he’s always touching her. Then she spots him at a party with his tongue down a nymph’s throat, and it clicks that Deimos swings whichever way will get him laid.

* * *

Ares slinks like a cat when he’s walking or sitting – he can never sit in a chair properly, casually swinging his legs over armrests. But when the God of War’s hands are on you, they’re commanding and sure. His touches feel deliberate and calculated, whether he’s gently caressing your skin or digging his nails into your flesh hard enough to create bruises in the shapes of his fingers.

His son isn’t quite so thoughtful, slinging his arm around your shoulders or waist, patting your back a little too hard or grabbing attention by gripping your arm. Whatever comes to him in the moment, like the foolish words out of his mouth he can’t bite back, saying his thoughts as they occur to him. Deimos is reactive, never proactive. Discord imagines him winging almost everything. She imagines his thoughts are even more disorganized in bed.

The name “Deimos” and the words “in bed” don’t combine in her mind until Discord’s having a dry spell and finds herself watching him lick his upper lip repeatedly like a lizard. Instead of feeling nauseous it makes her feel…something else. If Deimos can stop talking for five minutes, Discord knows a better use for his tongue. And this vulgar thought doesn’t seem wrong, because this must be what went through Ares’ mind when he decided to start fucking his own nephew.

Discord sleeps with Deimos for lack of anything better to do, and because he’s the only other war god who isn’t comatose with grief over that damn human warrior that Athena just threw off a cliff. He’s also the only person who can or even tries to understand her.

During their first time having sex, Deimos is rough just like his father, albeit clumsy and uncertain, just as Discord predicted. But their second time he isn’t like Ares at all. In fact, he gently eases her - after mockingly daring her - into sex with kind words and an open smile. (And an irritatingly smug laugh.) It seems his kindness is actually a joke that’s meant to piss her off, because Deimos knows she gets wet when lovers call her an evil monster who needs to be punished. But then Discord’s entire body fucking shivers when Deimos calls her his good little girl.

He says it again later, more than once, and despite her demands he cut the shit and stop spewing such lame-ass garbage – especially after Ares repeatedly broke her heart - she knows Deimos can feel her body betray the truth. He’s nailed something she hadn’t quite grasped for two thousand years. Discord doesn’t just like being praised for her ruthlessness, she likes being praised for this too. She likes it so much it’s embarrassing. She tries turning the tables on him, but Deimos has no qualms with it. He’ll do anything in bed if it gets his partner off. Deimos is a shockingly giving lover, in a way that Ares isn’t, and Discord chalks this up to the blonde specter hovering over their every dirty encounter – his mother is a love goddess.

Deimos is the most responsive and reactive lover Discord’s ever had, and he tries everything she suggests – all her diabolical tortures, as long as she agrees to a trade off and fucks him in ways that make them both joyfully laugh. He’s a bipolar lay, and Discord’s never sure which way he will swing - not between genders, because she knows Deimos has had a fair share of men – but which way he will swing between love and war. 

* * *

Ares never went for the most conventional of compliments, and Discord always liked being called a nasty, arrogant, despicable bitch. She delights in such insults, because she tries very hard to make them count. She’s the Goddess of Discord who constantly craves to be Goddess of War, but when Deimos calls her a delicious snack, a beauty, baby or babe, it makes her blush and feel just as flattered.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he says in her ear hoarsely, with a bitten-off moan, and Discord can’t help but smile and hook her ankles behind his back. They're having sex in Discord's bed, with Deimos on top - the taller god pressing her into the mattress, his body above and all around her - setting the pace. Discord's hips rock in his steady rhythm, and she holds onto him with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

It's good, _really_ good, but then Deimos mumbles, “I love you so fucking much," and Discord stiffens with discomfort, black thoughts crowding out her lustful ones. She opens her eyes and looks up at the ceiling, thoughts racing, wondering what this means and what the fuck she’s gonna do about it. She shuts her eyes and hopes he forgets - makes herself forget - because Ares said it once and she thought he meant it and he didn’t so Hera said….Hera said…

“I can’t,” Discord blurts out, but the pause is so long Deimos doesn’t know she’s replying. For some reason he seems to think it means she can’t come, because he looks down at her with a mischievous expression and asks what she needs him to do.

“T-touch me,” Discord stutters, not directly meeting his gaze. She thinks he’ll just reach down between them to caress her body, but instead he stops completely, to maneuver them into a sideways position. Discord considers this might be worse, even though they’re no longer facing each other. He can’t see her disturbed expression, and she can’t see his earnest smile, but this actually makes it easier for Deimos to whisper more romantic garbage in her ear.

It’s confusing, trying to separate logically what their relationship is from the nonsense he spews. She won’t repeat past mistakes and being held tenderly like this – Deimos is fucking her slow, and that just makes everything even more starkly wrong – is a slippery slope. He’s doing that stupid thing again that never fails to finish her off – begging not for his own release but for hers. He’s a competitive fuck and has been since the start of their affair. It’s both frustratingly annoying and super fucking hot. It’s probably the only thing Deimos has in common with Ares, insisting on being the one in control. (He has that in common with Aphrodite too.) Deimos is a switch through and through, but when he’s got her pinned like this, Discord is helpless.

“That’s it baby,” he says. “You’re almost there, I can feel it.”

He’s not wrong, and Discord hates that the most. She’s no stranger to faking orgasms – she even fakes them with Deimos sometimes – but this one is real. He has his hand between her legs and refuses to stop until she’s crested, biting back her cries. She trembles in his arms – a full-body shudder – and even though gods don’t need to breathe, she feels breathless. Discord clutches the pillow and hides her face in it. After a couple minutes, his own orgasm follows. Deimos still has his arms around her when he runs his fingers through her hair, and she bats away his touch. That move would get her a backhand from Ares. Her annoyed brush-offs only make Deimos chuckle.

“I’m starving,” he says, disentangling their limbs and sitting up. Any remnants of the “love” in his lovemaking seem to have dispersed, replaced by the ravenous hunger of a spent war god. Discord rolls over, finally meets his eyes and he grins. Deimos tilts his head and - blue eyes shining – it’s striking. He looks nothing like his father, and far too much like Strife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from this quote:
> 
> "Touch. It is touch that is the deadliest enemy of chastity, loyalty, monogamy, gentility with its codes and conventions and restraints. By touch we are betrayed and betray others ... an accidental brushing of shoulders or touching of hands ... hands laid on shoulders in a gesture of comfort that lies like a thief, that takes, not gives, that wants, not offers, that awakes, not pacifies. When one flesh is waiting, there is electricity in the merest contact."
> 
> Wallace Stegner


	5. February 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dennis gives Discord a book on Greek myths. She's told him every insane memory, but leaves out one important piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after "[What Left to Do But Complain?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725320)"

Discord almost drops her cigarette, choked by tears and smoke, and Dennis swiftly sits down on the couch to gently pat her back.

Phantoms of the past curl their tendrils around her wrists and pull her down, down, down into the uncertain depths of archived centuries of memory. That’s her, that’s _her _in the painting, holding out a golden apple addressed To the Fairest. Right there on fucking page 52, and Dennis might be softly smiling beside her. Dennis being “soft” is a foreign concept.

Discord doesn’t really know where to begin. What does Dennis want to do? Read the entry about the goddess Eris out loud together? Give her the book to take home? Sit in awkward silence some more while she stutters muffled cries like a fucking human? It’s bad enough she had sobbed in Strife’s arms that morning, telling him, “_I’m going fucking crazy in this body.”_

Discord closes the book and sets it aside. She takes another deep inhale of her cigarette. Dennis nestles closer, his arm slung over the back of the couch behind her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Dennis says, and he doesn’t ever mean his apologies but this one sounds sincere. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I wanted to show you that…that I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

Discord meets his eyes and Dennis looks earnest and sympathetic. He isn’t smirking anymore. They got their sarcastic quips out when she walked through the door.

“You’re mocking me,” she says, frowning. She’s more hurt that’s he’s shoved her encyclopedia entry in her face than when he breezily calls her a crazy slut.

“I’m not, truly. It’s just difficult, Veronica, ya know? It’s really, really hard for me to believe you. But I believe that you believe it, and if this is what it takes for us—for you—to get better, then…”

He trails off, and Discord can’t help but smile. She stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray Dennis keeps on the coffee table, then takes his hand.

“Thanks,” she says. Discord doesn’t plan on getting any sappier than that, not unless she has a few drinks, but she thinks of what she told Strife that morning, about how they don’t know who or what they are anymore. All they can be certain of is the shared trauma of being Ares’ two favorite doormats.

But Ares is a sob story she’s told already, one Dennis didn’t find as hard to believe.

“So, did I ever tell you how I started the Trojan War?”

Discord has – it was her self-introduction, considering it was her only claim to fame any humans would actually know - and he’s teased her about it in the past. But right now Dennis grins – she can’t tell if he’s genuinely interested or just acting supportive. Either way, it makes her feel happier than when her words are met with eyerolls and exaggerated yawns. She cracks open the book and scooches closer to him so their thighs touch. Discord rests the book in her lap so he can see it more clearly. They just read the entry together out loud, Discord making the occasional correction or addition to the story based on her own lived experience. When their hour is up, she doesn’t want to leave. Technically she doesn’t have to, since she’s not his patient anymore. She’s his girlfriend, and Discord thinks (hopes) that even if her health insurance stopped covering these visits, he’d keep seeing her.

Even so, even if this man only wants her for the extra cash, he’s one of the only three people in the multiverse who knows all Discord’s secrets. (Her sister doesn’t count.) And that makes him special. Discord’s put a lot of trust in this human, more than she’s ever trusted a mortal before.

The stories she’s told Dennis sometimes involve Ares and often Strife, occasionally mentioning Deimos but never saying too much. She only feels like it’s important she mention him to Dennis when they’re fucking – on his couch, in his chair, on his desk. Anywhere in the office, but never elsewhere, like a bed.

She never does, though. Maybe subtly moves a body part or a hand in such a way it replicates her dead lover’s touch, and all Dennis gleans from that is Discord likes being touched a certain way, not that there is any particular person who started the trend.

There’s no time to discuss Deimos today and there’s not even time to fuck, because it turns out Dennis has more appointments lined up – actual goddamn work – and then some other errands after. Dennis says she can have the book, to bring it home and read it later. Or burn it, he jokes.

“Only if you light the match, baby,” she says, blowing him a kiss as she exits his office. In the lobby, Cherile still has her Walkman blasting, nose in a magazine, oblivious.

She felt like trash walking in, but with the book held tight to her chest, she feels a bit lighter.


	6. We Side-Stepped Across the Thin-Laced Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discord and Strife discuss their threesome with Deimos in "[The Thing About Being Human](https://archiveofourown.org/works/561807)."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after “[The Thing About Being Human](https://archiveofourown.org/works/561807).”
> 
> The chapter title is an altered lyric from the song “Fortunate” by Common Rotation.

“So _that _happened.”

Discord and Strife stood opposite each other, leaned against their kitchenette’s counter-top, sipping mugs of tea and smiling. They’d left Deimos in Strife's bedroom, and he’d shut his eyes and declined their invitation to have a cup, “like a couple of nerds.”

The pair were still mostly dressed - a bit disheveled from their activities, but it was easy enough to buckle Strife’s belt and slip back on the straps of Discord’s bra. She looked down at her drink, blushing.

“Yeah, I wasn’t exactly planning—"

“A threesome?”

Discord shrugged in reply, taking a sip of tea in lieu of answering.

Strife laughed. “Pretty fun, though, huh? The guy falls apart like _that_.” He snapped his fingers.

“Oh my God, doesn’t he though? I think he wasn’t expecting four hands on him all at once.”

“Or two mouths.”

Discord clinked her mug with Strife’s.

“Cheers to a successful mission.”

“It was a pleasure working with you.”

Mischievous laughter fading, they sipped their tea. Discord sighed.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” she said with a frown. “If I crossed the line.”

Strife waved his hand, dismissing her apology.

“Don’t sweat it. We got caught up in the moment.”

“But—”

“Discord.”

“I _kissed_ you.”

Strife shook his head. “I kissed you first, remember?”

Discord had trouble recalling who had made the first move. It was all a bit of a blur, her focus mostly on Deimos. She touched her lips - wiping away a drop of tea but imagining the lingering sensation of…well, what had happened. Strife noticed her motion and softly chuckled.

“That’s what happens when I don't swallow my roommate’s boyfriend’s—”

“So I’m your roommate now?”

Strife stared at her a moment, before looking down at his tea and saying, “The alternative is a bit difficult to wrap my head around.”

Discord took a steadying breath, a hundred responses fluttering to the forefront of her mind before settling on a lame, quiet, “Yeah.”

“It’s no big deal,” Strife said, though Discord worried he was lying. _He kissed me first_, she reminded herself. _I would never—_

Words tumbling out in a rush, she said, “I want you to know, Strife, that I’m not like Ares. I’d never, ever take advantage of you like…Like he did.”

Strife’s brow furrowed, appearing stunned by her statement.

“I don’t think that at all.”

“Good,” Discord said curtly, tapping her fingers on the countertop while her other hand gripped her mug more tightly. Strife reached for her hand to still it, his comforting touch calming, evaporating her worries.

“If it bothers you so much, let’s set some ground rules. How about we take turns?”

“You mean poly-style?”

“Share the kid. Pass him back and forth.”

Discord laughed.

“You’re wicked, Strife!”

“I try.”

Discord sighed happily this time.

“I missed this scheming side of you.”

“This arrangement wouldn’t be too fucked up?”

Discord smirked and straightened her back.

“Oh honey, we’re war gods. We’ll always be a little fucked up.”

“I just want you to feel comfortable going forward.” Strife took her hand and lightly brushed the back of it with his thumb. “I want to see where this goes.” He withdrew his hand, then ran it through his messy black hair. “With your permission. And if Deimos will actually date me, of course. Assuming he would after a single blowjob, well…”

“I think you two would hit it off.”

“You think?”

Discord shrugged. “Even if it’s just physical. He was always really curious about you.”

_It doesn’t help that sometimes I address him by your name, _she thought. But Strife could never know.

“Yeah, I kinda got that. Alright, I’ll ask him out.”

“Oh by the way, I don’t know what you’re expecting, but Deimos is _shockingly_ good in bed. Then again, it might be because we were…Um…”

“Already sleeping together.”

_Yeah, for twenty-five freakin’ years._

“And I taught him every move he knows.” Discord cringed. “That’s not weird, is it?”

“Stop worrying, Discord, and let’s just have some fun.”

Strife finished his tea, then yawned and headed towards Discord’s bedroom. Deimos had passed out in Strife’s.

“I’m gonna hit the sack. You coming?”

_Poor turn of phrase_.

“I should probably crawl back into bed with my beau. See if he’s awake enough to reciprocate.”

Strife laughed.

“Good luck,” he said.

Discord raised her mug, toasting his exit. It was a little weird he just invited himself, assuming she’d be fine with swapping rooms, but they had been living together for nearly two years and sharing almost everything. Now they even shared a boyfriend.

Assuming Deimos would be up for dating his one thousand - (three thousand?) - year old cousin. Much like Deimos, Strife had been annoyingly manic in life, but was unnervingly serious in death. Seeing them interact back home would have been hilarious, at least until they started to split Discord’s eardrums with their high-pitched, giddy laughter. She could picture them cooperating on some evil prank, possibly sabotaging it with their stupidity, or perhaps actually succeeding as a team. The sex would be loud and the PDA obnoxious.

But Strife had slowed down and eased up on all that hyperactive impulsivity, and it was a morbid thought, but perhaps all Strife needed to be a proper war god was to die.

Discord quietly slipped into Strife’s room to join Deimos on the bed. He still lay clothed on top of the blankets, and when Discord lay down beside him, he rolled over to spoon her.

“Mmm,” he said. “You back for round two?”

“Yeah,” Discord replied. She entwined their fingers and guided his hand south, between her legs. He took the hint, caressing her through her clothes. Discord gasped, then nudged his hand aside so she could unzip her jeans. He reached into her pants and rubbed with more purpose, breathing heavily in her ear. Discord relaxed, relishing the warm pressure of his body flush against her back. It took a few minutes, but he brought Discord to climax. She didn’t make much noise in the dark, and neither did Deimos. But she could feel his erection, so she rolled over and did the same to him. He came in her hand and the feeling made her think of the blowjob she’d given him earlier. How he let go on her chin, and Strife kissed her while it happened. It was probably the filthiest, _wrongest _thing Discord had done in years, and all she could think about was how much she wanted to do it again.


	7. Two Times Love Fucked Discord Up and One Time It Didn’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three moments in time - Strife’s conception, Strife’s death, and a snapshot from her 25 years with Deimos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scenes with Deimos take place during the time gap between S5E19 of XWP "Looking Death in the Eye" and S5E20 "Livia," and after "[Got Me Walkin' Side to Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306735)."
> 
> The dialogue with Ares after Strife’s death comes from S4E16 of HtLJ, “Porkules.”

**3,000 Years Ago**

“Fuck me up, Bacchus.”

“Um—”

Discord stormed into the central hall of Parnassus where the other gods were setting up for a party, and her petite body shook the walls like a five-ton elephant with every step. The war goddess was a 5’4” hurricane who was quite literally dragging rainclouds in her wake, lightning sparking around her frizzed-out black hair. She looked just like her father Zeus, if he were a 20-year-old girl in a black leather dress.

Discord didn’t register her cousins’ looks of shock and confusion – she had never displayed such power outside a battlefield before – just marched up to the first person with wine and snatched the two jugs they were holding.

“Well hello to you too, sunshine,” said a sarcastic female voice behind her.

Discord took a messy gulp of wine, spilling red liquid down her chin, and after a moment, the lightning bolts haloing her hair started to shrink. Closing her eyes in pleasure, she took another sip and the rain from her personal stormcloud stopped falling. Discord took a deep breath and turned around. Her sister Aphrodite, the blonde-haired Goddess of Love, stood with her arms akimbo, eyebrows raised. Discord glared at her.

“Take a walk, sister.”

Aphrodite stepped forward, entirely unconcerned for her safety, and snagged one of the jugs from Discord’s grasp. She set it down on a nearby table with a silent nod to whoever stood behind Discord –Bacchus or Dionysus, or whatever name he used these days – as if to say, _“I’ve got this.”_

“Tell me what happened.”

If Discord could be described as Zeus on an enraged tear, then Aphrodite could be described as Zeus on one of his better days – straight-backed and commanding. The two goddesses had different mothers – Dione was a lovely person, probably, while Discord hero-worshipped her ruthless mother Hera – but they were both clearly their father’s daughters. Aphrodite had the unfair advantage of age, and Discord knew not to piss her off. That didn’t mean she had to answer her questions.

But Discord didn’t have to share what was wrong. Aphrodite was a love goddess and she likely knew already. She didn’t even need to read Discord’s mind - she could put together all the pieces logically. Discord had been working for, with, and beneath their brother Ares, and the God of War had not been the kindest of men.

Discord shook her head instead of answering, taking another sip of the wine from the jug she had left.

“Ares,” said Aphrodite, nodding in understanding. Discord’s eyes darted – she couldn’t meet her sister’s gaze. Aphrodite’s sympathetic expression made her uncomfortable. Discord preferred their ferocious combat. _This isn’t caring_, she thought. _It’s pity._

Discord wiped her red-stained lips with her forearm and muttered, “Yeah, Ares.” She waved the wine jug in Aphrodite’s face. “So I'm getting drunk.”

Aphrodite’s lip quirked. It was a party, after all, and she was one of the planners.

“You know what kind of stuff goes down on Mt. Parnassus, right Sis?” she said. “A lot of love, and no fighting allowed.”

The goddess pronounced the word “love” like “lurrrve,” to differentiate lust from deeper affection. Maybe one or two couples there were in love, but most just wanted to get down and dirty. More importantly, most people there wanted a chill time with no discord.

“Yeah, yeah,” Discord grumbled, watching servers bring out two huge platters of golden, glistening ambrosia. The gods could eat anything they wanted, but the only truly satisfying food was this invigorating, immortality-granting treat. And the only booze that could get them drunk was Dionysus’ special wine.

Aphrodite gave Discord a tight smile and held out her hand. Discord furrowed her brow, puzzled. Realizing what she wanted, Discord rolled her eyes. She set down the wine and started pulling small knives from every hiding place – from inside her corset, her boots, her bracers – and handed them to Aphrodite. It wasn’t like she couldn’t conjure new weapons, but if she broke any rules at this party, Zeus would find out, and he’d kick her ass with far more powerful lightning than Discord’s own modest sparks.

Aphrodite made a complex gesture with her right hand, which made the knives in her left one disappear. Seeing Discord’s scowl about to transform into outrage, Aphrodite said, “Relax, relax, they’re over at the weapons check. You can see for yourself.” She conjured a little scroll that had a number on it. With a smile, she said, “Here’s your ticket.”

Discord snapped her fingers and the scroll went up in smoke. Aphrodite said, “Ouch!” and shook her fingers.

“I believe you. Now get out of my way.”

Discord pushed Aphrodite aside and approached Hermes, the Messenger God, who had just flown in. She gave him a seductive smile, licked her lips and said sweetly, “Wanna split a drink with me?”

* * *

“You’re with child?”

Ares wasn’t even angry.

Discord needed him to be more angry.

“Who’s the father?” Ares asked, as if word hadn’t already reached him Discord slept with every god at the party and there was no way to know.

“I don’t know,” she said, wondering when he would get jealous.

She needed Ares to be jealous.

Instead, Ares shrugged, his stupid leg casually swung over his stupid throne’s armrest, relaxed as a sunning cat.

“Congratulations?”

He said it like a question, perhaps because he wasn’t sure Discord wanted to keep the pregnancy. He was acting nice, so fucking nice. He was the God of fucking War, why was he being nice? _(Stop stop stop being so fucking nice!)_

Discord held a serious, neutral expression.

“I’m keeping it,” she said flatly.

Ares raised an eyebrow, then gave her a small approving nod.

“Well okay then.”

He got up from his throne, towering over her. Ares gently took Discord’s chin in his hand, tilting her face up, and she longed for him to kiss her. Instead, he asked, “How long until you’re due?”

Gods had different gestation rates than mortals and they could vary depending on circumstance. In one extreme, Athena had been carried by her father, and shot to adulthood so fast she split Zeus’ skull. An estimated date could be iffy. It didn’t matter anyway, because his real question was if Discord could still do her assignments.

“Well, Discord,” he said softly, his face so close she could press their lips if she was just a little taller. “Until you’re waddling around like a top-heavy penguin...”

The God of War stepped back, withdrawing his warm touch, and with a grin he clapped his hands together loudly.

“Back to work!”

* * *

**1,000 Years Later**

Discord was just about to torch a fishing village when Hermes the Messenger God flew down and landed beside her. She jumped, surprised.

“Land wherever you like,” she said sarcastically. “It’s not like I’m busy or anything.”

Her comments drew no amusement from him. Hermes’ expression was grave.

“Discord, I have terrible news.”

“What news is so disturbing to the man who delivers bad news so often?”

“Callisto, well—”

“Oh fuck her,” Discord said dismissively. The little psycho’s reputation preceded her, but Callisto’s actions held little consequence in Discord’s own life. Discord figured she’d keep it that way and give the firecracker sociopath a wide berth.

“She killed—”

Discord rolled her eyes and Hermes had trouble getting her to focus on his words.

“Discord, this is important! I don’t know—I don’t know how to tell you this.”

Hermes looked shaken and distraught._ (Who did that bitch kill?)_

“She killed Strife.”

Discord’s first instinct was to hysterically laugh, and the involuntary sound made Hermes’ expression grow darker. Suddenly Discord had a flash of ancient memories – kissing the god at a party and taking him into her bed. Having a baby.

Discord’s laughter faded and she said, “You’re serious.”

Hermes took her hand and Discord hoped he couldn’t feel it shaking. She snatched it away.

“I’m sorry. It was the—”

“Hind’s Blood.”

“How did you know?”

_(Serena…)_

“Why the fuck _wouldn’t_ I know?” Discord snapped, as if the blood’s effects had been common knowledge and not a carefully guarded secret. “I’m his fucking mother! I knew Ares stocked up that shit. What a fucking—”

Discord screamed the word, _“Idiot!”_ and the sonic waves from her shout cracked the earth beneath their feet. Hermes jumped out of the way, hovering on his winged shoes.

Discord fell forward, slamming the ground with her knees and her fists. Sparks of lightning appeared around Discord’s teased-out black hair, making it stand on end with static.

She glared up at Hermes. Her eyes welling with tears, she said furiously, “If you tell a single soul that I—"

“I won’t,” he insisted, frightened by her rage. “I understand. I understand better than you think.”

After a beat, Discord said, “I blame all our son’s stupider qualities on you, by the way.”

Hermes – the god of many more things than just messages, admired by mortals and immortals alike for his shrewd intelligence - rightly looked offended. He probably wasn’t Strife’s father anyway. The boy more often reminded Discord of Hades, but she couldn’t remember if Hades had lain with her too.

“Fuckin’ Ares,” Discord spat. She stumbled to her feet and Hermes didn’t offer his hand. He kept his distance but stopped hovering, now he knew the ground wouldn’t open wide to swallow them. They both took deep breaths.

There was a brief, strained silence, then Discord said, “Maybe this is a good thing.” Hermes shook his head in disagreement. “No, really. Maybe Strife’s better off.”

“You don’t mean that!”

Discord waved both hands and her personal lightning storm fizzled out. With another snap, Discord straightened her hair and reapplied her streaking makeup.

“Did it happen just now?” she asked.

“No,” Hermes said. “It’s been a few days.”

“Figures,” Discord said. “I think you’re the only person who thought I’d want to know.”

“They assumed you wouldn’t care. You haven’t been the most…maternal.”

“Then I must take after Hera. Where’s that cunt Callisto now?”

“There was a battle. She—”

“Never mind, forget it. As long as she paid the price, I don’t actually care.” After a pause, Discord asked, “How’s Ares taking it?”

“Not great.”

“Is he alone?”

Hermes nodded. Discord raised her hand to teleport.

“By the way, I want to thank you, Hermes,” she said. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Discord.” Hermes sighed. “Now what’re you gonna do?”

She shrugged.

“Oh, I dunno. Kill Hercules?”

Hermes’ eyes widened.

“But he had nothing to do with—!”

Then Discord was gone.

* * *

Discord materialized in Ares’ temple, where he sat on his throne smashing statues with small bolts of lightning. His eyes were dark, his handsome features twisted into something between grief and rage.

“Redecorating?” she asked, but Ares didn’t acknowledge her. “Still upset about Strife, huh?”

Ares didn’t reply, smashing another statue. She honestly couldn’t blame him but knew they needed to move on, and soon. A sullen God of War was a dangerous one.

Discord put on her lightest, most careless tone. She shoved her love for Strife in an imaginary steel box, triple-padlocked it, and pushed it way down deep into the vault in the depths of her mind.

“He was a geek with the IQ of a sponge,” she said. Matter-of-factly, she added, “Take my word for it, he’s better off dead.”

The way things were going - the way things had been - Discord hoped that she was right.

Ares appeared to be considering her cold words and the accuracy of her assessment of Strife’s intelligence.

“Still,” Ares said with a sigh. “He was fun to kick around.”

Discord remembered every brutal punch, every slap, every time Ares took out his anger on the boy, and how he’d sometimes just beat him up for fun. Discord shook the disturbing images from her mind.

“I think I may have found a way to cheer you up,” she said, thinking of a scheme she had wanted to try for a while now, one that would make her feel a lot better too. Discord needed a distraction even more than her brother did, and this could be a good one.

Ares stood up from his throne and approached her, sarcastically saying, “Oh, let me guess. You hatched a plan to rid the world of my overrated half-brother.” Ares sneered. “So, what else is new?”

Discord frowned and thought of all the times Ares had blown her off, while keeping Strife tightly by his side. She summoned up every scrap of dislike for her shitty, dead kid to motivate her next action. It wasn’t hard, with Ares looking at her like that. _(Would Ares be this sad and angry if I died too?)_

“Alright, enough’s enough,” Discord said. “Snap out of it! You’re starting to become a real drag!”

Ares replied with a smirk, “Why, Discord, I’d forgotten what a temper you have.”

Discord leaned in close, looking up at Ares and batting her eyelashes flirtatiously.

“I know we haven’t been the best of ‘friends,’ lately,” she said, dripping innuendo into the word friend. And it was true - with Strife glued to him, Ares and Discord had not been “friendly” in far too long. _(It probably doesn’t help I tried to kill his son Evander.) _“So, why don’t you let me make it up to you?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Why spoil the fun?” she said. “Let me just say that by the end of the day you’ll be so ‘tickled,’” and she stressed the innuendo in this word too, “you’ll want me to be your second-in-command.”

Ares scowled. Second-in-command was Strife’s job and—

“Strife’s body’s not even cold, yet,” Ares said furiously. “You have no shame!”

It felt like a slap, because Ares was right. Discord claiming Strife’s spot only days after his death and minutes after news of it? What kind of person did that? (_What kind of mother?)_ Someone who didn’t believe in wasting time.

But Ares seemed to respect such a ballsy move, because his angry expression spread into a devious grin.

“And I like your style.”

Discord painted on a seductive smile and buried her love for Strife even deeper. After all, this outcome was what she had wanted for fifteen years, wasn’t it? After Hercules left the Academy, Ares picked Strife as his second, and she and Strife parted ways. Now Ares would finally be hers again - and hers alone. And she’d be next in line as Goddess of War.

“Oh, baby,” Discord cooed. “There’s a whole lot more of me to like if you know where to look.”

Ares grinned lustfully, eyes roaming up and down her body. Discord had missed that gaze.

“Oh, you know I do.” More seriously, Ares commanded, “Go. Impress me.”

Discord gladly complied, gleefully stealing their sister Artemis’ magic bow and using it to turn Hercules into a pig.

Unfortunately, her plan backfired, and after a series of increasingly ludicrous and improbable events, Discord was turned into a giant chicken, and she thought…

Yeah, Discord probably deserved it for what she’d said.

* * *

**Twenty Years Later**

“What in Tartarus is your problem?”

“_My_ problem? What’s _my_ problem? What the fuck is _your _problem?”

Discord and Deimos were arguing – as they often did – about something they would surely give less than two shits about later. To them it was currently the most important thing in the world, at least on principle. The argument was tired and old, and mostly came down to stepping on each other’s toes while battling various heroes, manipulating royals and their armies, and interacting with Ares and the other gods. Hercules was still around too, as well as his partner Iolaus, although Iolaus was now an old man whose talents he used to train new heroes, rather than going on adventures himself.

It was five years after Zeus and Hera’s deaths before Discord felt comfortable attacking Hercules again, since Ares had put an unofficial sort of protection on their brother himself - unspoken but tacitly approved. There were no grand repercussions for killing Hercules anymore, like when Zeus was in charge. But since Ares and Hercules had called a truce, Discord didn’t push her luck. She stuck to less deadly schemes, trying to nudge her little half-brother towards evil. It was a fun goal but never quite worked, though it kept her occupied. It kept them both occupied.

Deimos still wanted to be Ares’ second-in-command like his late cousin Strife, and so did Discord. After ten years of mourning Xena – who Athena had driven off a cliff- the God of War finally regained his old self and welcomed the pair back into his Halls. He wouldn’t interact with Discord alone, however, and it reminded her of those years when Hercules was at the Academy, Ares giving no extra favor to either Discord or Strife. Commanding them both, like decorated officers or loose pieces of garbage, depending on his mood. Sadly, some things never changed.

Discord supposed she should be grateful Ares considered his sister and his son to be on equal footing – unlike the many years he’d kept Strife close by his side_. (Too fucking close.)_

But this meant Deimos was still her competition, and Discord owed no allegiance to the foolish excuse of a fear god. Strife had been her ditzy son, while Deimos was her trashy nephew. Family ties didn’t compel her to side with Deimos. They didn’t need to be partners, like she had been with Strife. Why the fuck did they have to cooperate at all, when Discord was perfectly capable of accomplishing tasks herself?

Today Discord wasn’t sure what they were even arguing about - probably territory again. They had their own projects that had nothing to do with Ares or Hercules. Mostly Deimos liked scaring humans and Discord liked making them fight - ultimately some shit caught on fire when they couldn’t agree who got dibs, and everything they worked for fell apart.

More frequently – _too frequently_ \- they settled their arguments horizontally.

* * *

Fifteen years was a long time in human years for an arrangement like theirs to last, and Discord wasn’t sure they’d be living this way had things turned out differently. If Xena hadn’t died and Ares never mourned, or if Xena _had _died but Ares didn’t care. Discord always rationalized her relationship with Deimos was somehow Ares’ fault.

Whenever it was just her and Deimos, not thinking about consequences and just living in the moment - any captured, fleeting moments, because who knew how long things would last before the prophesied Twilight caught up with them – their competition evaporated. Ares didn’t fucking matter – nobody did – in the charged space between their bodies and tangled sheets of their bed.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” Deimos moaned. “I love you so fucking much.”

While Discord silently freaked out about Deimos spilling such declarations, a part of her wondered if his sneaky brother Phobos was triggering her anxiety. Nobody in the middle of an orgasm should be so terrified of catching feelings. Deimos was half Aphrodite’s, and Aphrodite loved everybody, just a little bit. Of course her son would be a little off, a little weird, a little too much like a human. Like it or not, he and Discord worked together enough to become friends, but just friends. People would say anything while they were coming. Deimos loved Discord like he loved a burning building, a plate of ambrosia, or jug of Dionysus’ wine.

“I can’t,” she blurted stupidly in response, remembering Hera telling her that _war gods don’t love, they can’t love, they’re not remotely capable._

Misinterpreting Discord’s statement, Deimos eased himself inside her, reassuringly saying, “Don’t you worry, babe, I’m gonna get you there.”

* * *

“What are we doing?” Discord asked Deimos in exasperation one day, while they spied on kids from the academy Iolaus had founded to train future fighters, just as he and Hercules had been trained.

“Fucking with Iolaus? I dunno. Didn’t you have a specific plan?”

“Yes of course I do,” Discord lied, “but I thought maybe, I dunno, you’d want to share your ideas.”

Deimos paused, thinking, tongue darting out to lick his upper lip. He picked at his fingernails, the silence stretching longer, and clearly he was unprepared.

“Nyx!” Discord said. “You’re lucky I’m not Ares.”

“I’m thinking!” he snapped defensively.

“Tick-tock, kid.”

“Why do we gotta bother them today? Don’t you wanna do some more, I dunno, reconnaissance first?”

Discord shrugged.

“I guess, but it’s kinda boring. I mean, like—”

“Or do some brainstorming? ’Cause I was thinking, there’s this cove down south I’ve been wanting to check out.”

“Huh?”

“It’s gorgeous! It’s good for swimming, and drinking, and--and other things.”

Discord looked at Deimos like he was crazy.

“What are you saying? That you want to go to the beach?”

Deimos nodded enthusiastically. Discord groaned.

“You are just like your mother.”

He scoffed. “We’re nothing alike.”

Discord waved her arms, gesturing to his entire body.

“The hair, the clothes, the mannerisms, and now the vacation spots.”

Deimos bit his lip, his expression a mixture of embarrassment, guilt and uncertainty. Discord sometimes had the strong feeling he wanted to switch sides, but they both knew there was a violent, psychotic undercurrent within him from Ares that made Deimos an equally incompetent love god.

Two big, blue puppy-dog eyes were wearing her resistance thin.

“Ugh!” she said. “Okay, we’ll go to your dumb beach for a day.”

Deimos clapped his hands.

“Really? Yay!”

Face in her palm, Discord groaned. “You make it so, _so_ difficult to tolerate you.”

“You know you love it.”

Discord sighed, saying, “What’s the dress code at this place?”

“Hmm, nude, I should say.”

“Try again.”

“Fine,” Deimos said. “Uh, hang on.”

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly Discord was wearing something far too similar to Aphrodite’s attire than Discord ever hoped to hang on her body.

“NOPE!” she shouted, immediately snapping her own fingers, replacing sickening, lacy pastels with a simpler black cotton dress. It felt cooler and was more appropriate beachwear than her armor but fit her personality.

“Deimos, we really need to have a talk,” Discord said, pulling her thick hair back and tying it. “You are literally my worst nightmare. I’m dating my sister, except it’s far, far worse.”

“We’re ‘_dating?’” _he said, making airquotes and laughing. “But that’s a human thing!”

“I have no idea what the fuck it is we’re doing,” Discord grumbled. “I just know I want you to shut the fuck up and teleport us to this stupid cove already. We’ll take a swim, bang out a quickie, and then we’re right back here and back to work.”

“You sound just like Ares.”

“That’s kinda the point. Let’s go.”

* * *

Shading her eyes from the bright afternoon sun, Discord gazed across the water looking for signs of a ship. Deimos – mostly naked, except for skintight swim trunks - sat next to a campfire on the beach behind her, munching on a turkey leg. Discord had not stripped down or even rolled up her dress. She stepped into the water to cool her feet, and the black fabric twisted around her ankles, soaked with seawater.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Looking for humans.”

“The whole point of this trip was to get away from humans.”

_And be alone together, _he didn’t say.

“I’m bored.”

Discord thought she spotted something in the waves, perhaps the head of a mermaid like Nautica. Then again, she shouldn’t push her luck and mess with Triton again.

“You wouldn’t want to sink a ship?” she asked him. “Could be fun.”

“You know Poseidon would have a shitfit,” Deimos replied. “Did you not want to have sex? We can just eat instead.” He waved the turkey leg at her. “Come on, try some. It’s delicious!”

Discord gave him an unimpressed look. They had divine powers and the ability to conjure anything, and Deimos had put together a basic picnic spread – pieces of roast turkey, some grapes, slices of cheese and a jug of wine.

“Please tell me you hid some ambrosia in there,” she said, gesturing to an actual fuckin’ picnic basket.

“You think I’m stupid? Voila!” Deimos pulled out a smaller bundle, peeled back the fabric and revealed the amber treat.

Discord reached down for it, but Deimos yanked it from her reach. Discord took the hint and sat beside him, sand sticking to her damp cotton dress. Deimos pinched off a piece and held it up to her lips.

“Say ‘ah.’”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Discord muttered, before obediently opening her mouth. He placed the ambrosia on her tongue.

“Mmm,” she said. Her moan bordered on erotic, which was entirely unintentional. Discord blushed.

“No need to be embarrassed,” Deimos said. “Want more?”

Discord nodded, eagerly swallowing another piece.

“Now that’s good,” she said.

Deimos had been saving the ambrosia for dessert, but the two gods polished it off quickly. The flavor was difficult to describe – like every deliciously bad-for-you food rolled into one gooey package. Salty and sugary and savory all at once.

Another reason Discord’s eyes kept scanning the ocean was she wanted to be certain she and Deimos were alone.

True, they could just turn invisible, but another immortal may still spot them. Keyed up from the ambrosia, Discord let the anxiety go. She pushed Deimos into the sand and straddled him.

As she leaned down for a kiss, he said, “Wait, wait.”

“What is it?”

“Sand. There’s too much sand. It’s coarse and rough and it’s getting fuckin’ everywhere!”

“Oh,” said Discord. With a slight smile, she blinked and they were suddenly nude and clean, laying on a large, soft blanket. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Much better.”

When you were gods, beach sex could be fun. It was easy to clean off the salt spray and sand, spread out on conjured blankets that would never get dirty, and enjoy a partner’s body in the cool breeze and shining sun. Discord was used to fucking Deimos in dark, hidden corners of temples and hideouts, so often afraid of being caught that she’d forgotten how fun it was banging outside.

“Thank you,” she said afterwards, clothed again in her now-dry black dress, wearing dark glasses to dim the light. Deimos lay beside her on his back, still nude, hands behind his head.

“For what?”

“For bringing me here. I forgot how much I liked the outdoors.”

Deimos snorted.

“You like the outdoors?”

“Why is that so surprising?”

Deimos sat up, poked her shoulder and said, “Because you’re always slinking through the shadows like an alley cat.” He mimed a cat walking with his fingers. “I thought you’d catch fire in the sun, you’re so pale.” He lightly ran his fingers down her arm. “Lucky you don’t burn.”

“Lucky you haven’t set me on fire yet.”

Deimos removed her glasses from her face and tossed them aside. Discord grabbed for them, but Deimos pushed her back down.

“Babe, I set you on fire every night.”

“How do you know I’m not faking it?”

“Hmm, I suppose there’s no way to really know,” Deimos admitted, which was mature of him. “Except I kinda have this ability I picked up from—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Might explain a lot of weird things, actually.”

“Ya think?”

Discord sat up. She kissed Deimos’ cheek, then got to her feet.

“The very implication that you fuck like your mom is making me so dry, I may never get wet again.”

Deimos laughed.

“Come on, let’s go.”

“But we didn’t even swim!”

Discord frowned. She didn’t want to swim, mostly because she wasn’t sure what footing she was on with Poseidon.

Deimos made the decision for her, picking Discord up over his shoulder and carrying her into the sea.

“Put me down!” she yelled, and though she could easily wreck him, they were already in the water and she didn’t bother.

The water was shallow, and Discord could stand up easily – it was only slightly deeper than where she’d stood earlier. Deimos swam further out, until he was in deep enough water to pick his legs up and float.

“Come on, Discord,” he hollered, gesturing for her to join him. Discord sighed in exasperation, then succumbed to the idiot’s goofy grin and removed her dress. She stripped by hand, pulling it over her head, and discarded the drenched fabric in the water to float away like a flattened corpse. Discord dove into the water and swam to Deimos’ side. When she resurfaced, he splashed her face playfully, starting a fight he was certain to lose.

* * *

“Are you ready to get back to work?” Discord asked. After their swim, they ate more food and had more sex - the day growing long as the sun set.

“Tomorrow,” Deimos said. “We’re gonna fuck up Iolaus’ academy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna—and it’s gonna—”

“What?”

“It’s gonna be cool. Give me a little more time to think of something cool.”

Discord hummed softly.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “We’ve got all the time in eternity.”


	8. Left Brain, Right Brain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Identity isn't so simple for the son of the Goddess of Love and God of War.
> 
> Four moments in time - The fight for the Rock of Argius, telling Aphrodite his new chosen vocation, trying to have some vanilla sex with Discord, and some awkward love confessions in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene and quoted dialogue at the beginning is from S5E20 of HtLJ, "Fade Out." In S6E2, "Love Amazon Style," Aphrodite and Deimos really do call each other Deimie and 'Ditee, and I will always find that funny.

**2,025 Years Ago**

The strangest thing about having his mind split by Discord was that the feeling wasn’t anything new.

Discord wanted the Rock of Argius – more specifically, she wanted to be the God of War’s second-in-command, which meant humiliating Deimos, who had taken credit for her work, which meant using the stone to remove the curse cast on Hercules – so she dispatched Deimos in quite possibly the most Discord of ways. Deimos had been unprepared for such a fight, unaware how invasive her telepathy could be. He had seen her start arguments with the flash of two red eyes, but tearing a person’s psyche and giving their brain two personalities - such power was astounding! Deimos didn’t appreciate the artistry until much later. For now it just pissed him off.

“You know, Cuz?" she was saying. "You really ought to try seeing my side of this.”

Deimos scoffed.

“Your side?”

“A goddess has to protect her prerogatives. Every argument has two points of view. Otherwise, there'd be no room for discord. Think about it.”

As Deimos struggled to escape the electric ropes that bound him, Discord waved her hand and suddenly there was two of him. Two bickering voices launched their arguments, both shouted from the same throat. 

“You're right, I should never have got between you and Ares," he told her, and looking pleased to be told she was right, Discord smirked and teleported away.

Once she was gone, he exclaimed, "Are you crazy? That witch has got you hanging upside-down from a tree!"

It infuriated him, but half of him understood why she'd done it.

"She acted in self-defense, a motivation entirely reasonable."

"If you let me down," he snarled at himself. "I'll reason you a broken nose, you moron!”

It had never been so literal as this, but as his mind ping-ponged between the two logical arguments - Discord had betrayed him, but he'd betrayed her first - he thought of how he'd been bounced back and forth between his parents, the Goddess of Love and God of War.

* * *

**Many Years Earlier**

“Deimie, honey, you gotta stop setting villages on fire.”

Deimos stood in Aphrodite’s temple in Corinth, restlessly shifting from foot to foot, not-quite meeting his mother’s stern gaze. His scowling brother Cupid stood stock-still beside him, straight-backed and confident. Deimos was never a very good liar.

“I swear that wasn’t me! It was totally Cupid’s fault.”

Cupid scoffed.

“What gives, bro? I had nothing to do with—”

“Somebody shot those flaming arrows from, like, way up high, and I can’t fly, so—”

“I don’t have flaming arrows. They’re not even sharp!”

“It coulda been Aunt Discord. She’s a total pyro.”

“First you say it was me, then you say it was Discord. Keep your story straight, Deimos!”

“Or maybe it was Strife, I dunno. You would know.”

“Why would I know what Strife was—?”

“I dunno, but you and Strife’s story ain’t straight, if you get what I’m—”

Cupid spread his wings to make himself bigger, raising his fists.

“Say that again.”

In exasperation, Aphrodite yelled, “Boys, boys, boys! Be quiet!”

Aphrodite threw out her hands, forcefully separating her sons, telekinetically slamming them into opposite walls. Cupid and Deimos let out winded “oofs!” and grunts of pain, then fell to the floor. Like Deimos had once seen Ares do to Discord and Strife, Aphrodite clapped her hands together, roughly dragging the brothers across the stones to her feet. Deimos groaned.

“Cupid was on a job, performing a match for me. Strife and Discord were on assignment for Ares, who was orchestrating a battle. You’re the only god unaccounted for who would commit such a crime.”

Deimos rose unsteadily on his elbows and blinked the dizziness away.

“Uh, Phobos—”

Aphrodite sighed.

“Was there too. He’s _always_ there too.”

Phobos hadn’t been seen in over a century, but the god's presence could still be felt squeezing hearts with ice-cold fear. The Goddess of Love had wished – even prayed to the creators of the universe – that her twins could be reformed as their older brother Cupid had, showcasing even the slightest hints of Love, but they continually disappointed her. Deimos became more like his God of War father with each passing day.

Deimos looked up to his father quite a lot and craved his attention, but Ares was a violent man difficult to please, and a disappointed Aphrodite had always been more forgiving.

Cupid fluttered his wings and got to his feet.

“Mom, why’d you do that? I’m not the one who—”

“You were about to throw the first punch.”

Unable to argue, Cupid sullenly shrugged. Deimos jumped up, brushing off dirt that wasn’t there - Aphrodite kept her floors spotless.

“You’re dismissed,” Aphrodite told Cupid. The love god frowned and dematerialized in a shower of golden sparks.

“Deimie,” Aphrodite said, placing her hands on his shoulders and looking more sad than angry. “What happened?” she asked rhetorically, not about today’s events but about his fuck-ups in general. “I thought maybe…”

She stepped back, taking his hand, her expression inscrutable. Was it love? Aphrodite loved everyone, just a little. Even her nemesis Discord, probably. Deimos had his own crush on the cruel witch. Could war gods have crushes, or was that a thing Deimos got from his mother? Were all his idiosyncrasies from Aphrodite too? The way he spoke and laughed and moved his body? (How scary a sharpened blade was, the way a roaring fire wasn’t?)

Deimos imagined wooing Discord would involve something barbaric like a human sacrifice, but hopefully she’d settle for a black-ribboned box with a nice engraved dagger inside. Not that Deimos was brave enough to follow through on such a fantasy. Was having such a fantasy a love god thing too?

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Deimie?" Aphrodite asked, nose wrinkling. She could probably read his thoughts, a power that came with the Love gig.

More meekly and pathetically than he meant to, Deimos replied, “I just want them to notice me,” meaning all three war gods collectively - his father, his aunt and his cousin. Surely he could impress them by inflicting enough terror to garner a reputation. They’d welcome him into the fold and he’d belong somewhere instead of floating aimlessly, driven by primal impulses to either destroy or have fun.

Day trips to sunny beaches, drunken one-night stands, big warm breakfasts, and rides on the wind when he was still a little godling and his big bro Cupid took him flying.

Crying children, desperate farmers, despondent architects whose life's work had been for nothing. Battered, bloody soldiers finally home from war, only to find their homes destroyed, their families destitute, their futures uncertain.

Deimos didn’t personally kill anyone, he mostly let the repercussions of his actions unfold as they will. Watching communities tear themselves apart with paranoia filled him with sick delight. Deimos let the humans quake in fear, then anger, and eventually destroy themselves.

Which was more “him?” The fun-loving hedonist, or the evil terrorist? Maybe both. Aunt Discord was both, right? He got that impression from the way she dressed – impractical for battle, with a style more suited for sex. She was probably a dynamo in the sack, not that Deimos knew what a “dynamo” even was, because he and his partners tended to get too drunk to remember.

Deimos couldn’t exactly ask his mother or brother for pointers, because it squicked him out more than asking Aunt Discord. She didn’t seem to have a problem flirting with her own brother or son, though, and the implications of that were as disturbing as they were hot.

Aphrodite was frowning even more now – yeah, his mind had shown her too much.

“I get it,” she said.

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t think you do.” Deimos sighed, dropping her hand. “Look 'Ditee, I can’t make any promises this won’t happen again. I’m the God of…”

Deimos trailed off. Nobody had ever given him a title, and he hadn’t yet settled on one himself.

He’d decided two things, at least, about his look. And if he nailed the look, he reasoned, he was halfway there. Deimos would keep his blonde hair – no doubt from Aphrodite’s side - spiked short, and deck himself out in dark red. The intricacies of his outfit changed over the years, except for a few details. Deimos liked being able to flex his limbs and run, which - despite the silly visual - meant he preferred to wear shorts.

Unlike his older cousin Strife - who everyone said Deimos resembled – a god equally lacking a formal title but with a definitive persona. Strife wrapped himself in a full black bodysuit - the better to blend into shadows and scare the piss out of people when his pale face emerged from the dark. Strife covered every patch of bare skin but his face and fingertips – a young wannabe God of War, and god of creeping Deimos out. He wore his black hair slightly long and messy, though not long as Ares. When he walked, Strife’s lithe body moved languidly, and he had a casual, confident air that Deimos envied. He and Discord both had a fondness for knives, as well, and the dark fabric of Strife’s clothes hid any number of pocketed blades.

(Deimos had no idea if Strife’s personality was just a calculated image constructed to hide deeper-seated fears, but if he’d spent any length of time with his cousin it would become abundantly clear how hard Strife truly worked to fake it. Aphrodite knew this, but she wouldn’t rat Strife out and tell him.)

“I’m the God of Terror,” Deimos told her, trying the name out for the first time, and immediately wanting to take it back. She didn’t look ashamed though, just kinda tilted her head like things suddenly clicked and made sense.

“Just like your—"

“Like my brother, yeah.”

Aphrodite looked just over his shoulder, and Deimos thought perhaps she saw Phobos there. His fraternal twin brother and constant companion. The Gods of Fear and Terror - always meant to be partners.

She shrugged and sighed.

“Okay, Deimie. Guess I can only ask nicely that you not torment my followers.”

His mother’s resigned expression made Deimos blurt, “I can try. I’ll try. Believe me, ‘Ditee, that I’ll—”

“I know, son,” Aphrodite interrupted, not believing him for a second. A powerfully strange feeling washed over him. Was this guilt? Could war gods feel guilt?

“I know.”

* * *

**Many Years Later**

“Can you—can you just put that thing away for, like, a second?”

Discord and Deimos lay in bed half-dressed – both missing their armor, shirts and boots, but otherwise still clothed - while Deimos futilely attempted to remove a distressingly large dagger from Discord’s hand. The blade made him feel anxious in a way he couldn’t shake, and he had the sudden, immediate urge to discard it.

“I thought you liked knives?”

“I do, but not, like—”

“We had such fun last week, marking each other with beautiful scars!”

Discord laughed delightedly. Deimos couldn’t explain why the dagger filled him with dread, or why he’d rather play with pleasure than with pain for the day, or week, or month, or maybe for the rest of eternity. _Why, _he wondered, _did I have to fall for a sadist like Discord?_

Frustrated, Deimos snapped his fingers and the blade was gone. Discord sat up, shocked and furious.

“Where did you--?”

“Relax, it’s over there.” Deimos nodded towards her discarded armor across the room, where the dagger now sat. The Goddess of Retribution rolled her eyes and collapsed on the bed, exaggeratedly sighing.

With a pout, she said, “You’re no fun.”

“We can have plenty of fun without bleeding all over the sheets.”

“You’re being weird.”

“You always think I’m weird.”

Discord sat up, narrowing her eyes appraisingly.

“Weirder than usual.”

Deimos chuckled nervously. Discord’s expression dawned in understanding.

“You’re afraid of me.”

Instead of laughing at his worry, she gently touched his cheek as if to say, _I’m not a danger to you. _Discord was less inclined to tease him as time went by, probably not out of actual kindness and more because she knew cruelty alienated him and she’d stop getting laid.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “You’re supposed to be the scary one, God of Terror.”

Discord flashed him a smile – and she’d murder him if he said it was cute – and straddled his legs. Deimos lay back and let the petite goddess continue undressing him. It took a long time to undress each other without magic – infuriatingly long, and gods only wore so many layers because it was easy to use their powers to remove them. Unfastening all the armor on Discord’s body was more like a test of patience than foreplay. It was kinda nice, Deimos thought, but he wouldn’t tell her how intimate it felt to finally learn how to unbuckle the straps of Discord’s corset. Such mundanity shouldn’t be so sexy. He wasn’t even hard anymore – it was tough to stay aroused when you were fumbling with knotted threads – but it was hot all the same, baring Discord’s body inch by inch, removing her long sleeves and leather bracers, relaxing the tight collar around her throat.

Now she was clad in a single short skirt – a sight not unfamiliar and garment easy to lift – and it was his turn to be slowly disrobed by fumbling hands unused to removing tight leather. They laughed together more than once, he moaned when she wrapped her fingers around him, then they laughed some more when she failed to pull his shorts off completely. 

“Stand up and strip!” Discord said, and Deimos complied, getting up to kick off his shorts, leaving them both nude except her skirt. With another totally-not-cute smile, Discord sat on the edge of the bed and tugged on his wrist, encouraging him to sit beside her. When he did so, she knelt on the floor between his legs, making it clear what she wanted to do first.

“Believe me, I’m not going to hurt you if you don’t want me to,” she said reassuringly, bowing her head. “I just want to make you feel good.”

This surprised him. Discord was a selfish creature – unpredictable and addicted to inflicting pain.

“You do?”

Discord pressed her tongue to his body, to prove her words.

“Yeah,” she whispered, and he fisted her long, black hair and replied, “Good.”

* * *

**(Two Thousand) Ten Years Later**

**Milwaukee, Wisconsin**

“You ever wonder about ‘Ditee?”

Discord stopped eating her cereal mid-bite and gave Deimos an incredulous look.

“That bitch never crosses my mind.”

“Strife said she’s alive, right?”

“What’s your point?”

“I just—there’s so much I never got to ask her.”

Discord scrunched her nose and said, “You had three hundred years.”

“I know! I know, I just—I always thought maybe—I dunno, maybe I wasn’t supposed to—”

“Supposed to what?”

“Be a war god.”

Discord thoughtfully took another bite of cereal.

“What else would you be? You’re Ares’ kid.”

“You’re Hera’s, and she wasn’t such a bad—”

“She was the most ruthless woman I ever had the displeasure of meeting. You’re lucky you never had to interact with her. She was fucking frightening. Hera could teach you a thing or two about terror.”

“I just—maybe I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? Fuckin’ hell.” Discord sat up straight, pointing her spoon at him. “Tell me, Deimos. What’s your favorite pastime?”

“Se—”

“Other than sex.”

“Dru—”

“Other than drugs.”

Deimos paused, thinking hard.

“Alcohol?”

“Setting shit on fire.”

Deimos snapped his fingers, remembering.

“Yes, you’re right! I loved setting fires!”

“Excellent. And what kind of love god does that?”

Discord got up from her stool in the kitchen and moved to the couch, taking her cereal with her. Deimos followed, sitting beside her.

“Look, I know what you’re saying. Yes, I love violence, and terrorizing people, and setting people on fire, and—”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You know that—that thing I say sometimes that you tell me not to say and get really mad when I say it?”

“That you’re in love with me?”

Discord said it so casually, so dismissively, and looking so _bored _by it, that it struck Deimos as insulting.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s all these human hormones and shit.” Discord nudged his thigh with her foot playfully, but Deimos felt anything but playful. “It’s natural. Oxytocin, or something. You bond with people, you fuck them enough times, people grow to love each other.”

“And when we were gods?”

Discord placed her bowl on the coffee table and put her feet in Deimos’ lap, pinning him to the sofa, unable to escape this uncomfortable conversation he dearly wished he hadn’t started.

“Hera did a real number on me, you know,” she said. “She told me we’re not capable of love. Confused the fuck out of Ares, I’m sure. Not that his love for Xena was remotely healthy. But it was real.”

“And mine?”

Discord shrugged.

“I dunno, man, all I know is I hated your guts. You were weaseling in with Ares trying to replace me. Then Athena tried to kill Xena, and well…”

Discord spread her hands as if to say, _And the rest is history._

“Do you love me?”

Discord sighed.

“Don’t ask me that.”

Deimos grasped one of Discord’s feet.

“I _will_ tickle you.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“I’m gonna do it if you don’t talk.”

“Fuck you.”

Mercilessly, he tickled her foot, until Discord begged through her laughter, “Stop, stop!”

Deimos put her foot down. Discord covered her face with her hand, cheeks red with embarrassment.

“Alright, alright,” she said breathlessly, words in a rush, “Yeah, yeah I do. Kinda, sorta, maybe.”

Deimos grinned and pulled her to him. Discord yelped in surprise, then relaxed on top of him, straddling his lap.

“You know I was never quite sure what impulses to follow,” he said, “but suppose it doesn’t matter much now.”

“Why not?”

“Because humans are all a mix of love and war – of good and evil - and we’re humans now, babe.”

Deimos kissed her slowly and deeply, his mind whole, as though never torn in two.


	9. Some Conversations

“Can you just chill? By Nyx…”

“I ask for a Coke and they bring me a Pepsi? Are there no standards anymore?”

“That’s just what restaurants do, Discord. They have one or the other, take it or leave it. Pepsi’s fine.”

“Pepsi is not gonna cut it, Strife. I’m getting a godsdamn Coke.”

“Then buy some from the 7/11 and bring it in next time. Can we just order? Please? Like civilized adults?”

“Fine, I’ll have a rum and Coke. Hold the Pepsi.”

“So just rum?”

“On second thought, make that a Jack and Coke.”

* * *

“What the fuck, Strife? Can this asshole drive any slower?”

“Relax, Discord. Deep breaths.”

“If you tell me to relax one more time, I’m gonna cut your dick off and feed it to you for breakfast.”

“Wow, I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”

“That’s it, fuck this. You drive.”

“You’re getting out of the—? We’re in the middle of traffic!”

“You want me to crash this thing into the next slow-ass Honda I see?”

“N-no?”

“Then take the wheel and drive.”

* * *

“By the gods, Deimos, will you just make up your mind and pick a godsdamn movie?”

“Shh! Don’t rush me, Discord. There are too many choices.”

“You should see the Blockbuster downtown. Your puny mind would explode.”

“Action movie, or romcom? I can’t decide.”

“Are you any more like your parents than in this very moment?”

“Huh?”

“Just…pick the action movie. Romantic comedies make my brain hurt.”

“They make you jealous.”

“What?”

“Jealous. You get jealous of the main character ‘cuz she gets the guy in the end.”

“Why—why would I be jealous? I’m—I’m in a relationship. I’m sleeping with you, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“They just seem happier.”

“What the fuck, Deimos? What are you trying to say? Is there something wrong with me?”

“No! No. Nyx, I just meant—I mean—Look, it seems like you just never let yourself feel things. Good things. That aren’t anger or jealousy, or spite or—or vindictiveness. Hatred. You’re passionate, and I like that. I keep telling you how much I like that, and you don’t say it back, so I figure that’s just—that’s just who you are, but then you get all weepy during romcoms and I realized that—”

“What?”

“You can’t love. And it tears you up inside, because you want to.”

“I—”

“Which is kinda ironic, because it shows you can feel things other than hate, it’s just too painful or something. I dunno.”

“Deimos, I—”

“You don’t have to apologize. What did Ares used to say? ‘Never apologize?’”

“I’m not jealous of those women. They’re not even real.”

“Fair enough. You wanna rent Chasing Amy, or You’ve Got Mail? The guy in Chasing Amy looks kinda like that angel you hang out with, what’s-his-face.”

“Ugh! I can’t stand that guy.”

“Ben Affleck?”

“What’s-His-Face. Grab the Meg Ryan flick. Actually no, fuck that shit. Let’s rent True Romance.”

“Tarantino wrote it? Choice select, babe!”

“Oh shut the fuck up.”

* * *

_This is not a love story._

“I don’t know what looks better on you, Discord. Seething hatred, or that cute little laugh.”

“It’s not cute.”

“It’s cute. Especially the way your nose scrunches.”

“That’s gross!”

“When you’re angry you just kinda turn red and tense up and it’s really off-putting.”

“You’re one to talk, Deimos!”

“Come on, admit it. Laughing with me just makes your heart grow fonder.”

“Too bad you’re not funny, then.”

_This is a love story._

“Oh no, what ever will we do? There’s only one bed!”

“Move over, asshole."


	10. Keepin' It In the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the events of [The Thing About Being Human](https://archiveofourown.org/works/561807) and [We Stepped Across the Thin-Laced Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20187478/chapters/50832058), from Deimos' point of view.
> 
> Also some flashbacks to his first time with Strife, a weird encounter with Discord, Deimos wanting his own mother's approval, and Deimos' shitty love life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, 'cause we're gonna explore the dubious ethics of the Ancient Greek Gods engaging in: mother/son incest (Discord/Strife), aunt/nephew incest (Discord/Deimos), first cousin incest (Strife/Deimos), mother/son incest grief shapeshift roleplay (that the nephew is really, really uncomfortable with), and mothers and sons making out on your dick that one time 'cause they were drunk. (Or were they?)
> 
> References to sex acts and non-explicit sex, but nothing graphic.

Deimos was deeply familiar with awkward morning-afters. Before Discord, almost all his sexual partners were openly embarrassed and regretful. Aphrodite showed some sympathy, but the Goddess of Love did not intervene to help her son through his heartbreak. It wasn’t like Deimos had _fallen_ for anyone – his father Ares told him war gods were incapable of love – but he was still hurt by their coldness, stinging insults and rolling eyes. By Zeus, how drunk had they been to open their legs for such a freak as Deimos, the wannabe God of Terror?

So Deimos left as soon as possible. Gods didn’t need sleep or a ride out of town, so there was no reason to stay and rest in a lover’s bed. The god’s best record for escape was thirty seconds after sex – giving his lover a smirk and quick thank you, then swiftly teleporting away.

His longest time lingering in bed was with Discord overnight – and one time, half a day. Deimos wasn’t quite sure about her rules, and after a decade he stopped keeping track. Discord was the only person who wouldn’t kick him out, though such permission was achieved gradually, and he would usually get bored regardless. Unless they were going to keep fucking, there wasn’t much point in staying. And the nearest approximation to cuddling the stand-offish war goddess allowed was lying with their shoulders brushing, maybe their ankles or calves touching, but never a tangle of limbs. There was no way the two gods could relax enough to spoon. Listening to her softly breathe was intimate enough, and Discord seemed to feel the same.

If Deimos fell asleep in her bed, he either woke with Discord gone, or with her back turned to him. He would gently kick her awake with his toes, figuring it was less transgressive than caressing her arm. Discord wouldn’t make a pained noise, just look over her shoulder to glare at him. If Discord sat up and the sheets pooled around her waist, exposing her breasts, that was just a good morning bonus.

“Hey asshole,” would be her first words, or something similar. Maybe Discord would say, instead of a greeting, that this would never happen again. They both knew it would, but that didn’t stop Discord from swearing it. Maybe she would tell him to get out and fuck off, but after ten or fifteen years, they dropped this dialogue, their arrangement understood and unspoken. Oh, they had forgotten themselves and slept together again. Whatever, so what?

Deimos’ death and reincarnation in Wisconsin brought back the “awkward morning after,” at least until he met Cherile. During the six months Deimos couch-hopped through Milwaukee, he managed to talk himself into various beds - through either underhanded means, or just by being funny. Deimos was often more intoxicated than his partners, and this kept his limited morals intact. Date rape was not a reliable method for finding accommodations, because whoever he might rape would be the one providing them. And how was he supposed to find their apartment if they were trashed?

Worming his way into large parties of people worked best, because at least one person would have a place he could stay. Maybe they’d take pity on him if he was too intoxicated to drive – not that he had a car anyway. Nobody wanted drunk drivers on the streets these days. Maybe they’d lend him their couch, throw a blanket over him and wait until sunrise – ideally until noon - to ask him to leave. Or maybe he would, in fact, get laid and sleep in a bed. Despite the pleasure of the evening, beds were actually worse. That’s when his partner would wake and roll over, squint their eyes and say, “What the fuck happened last night?”

Cherile was the sweetheart – though it was a mystery how she had come into his life – who despite everyone’s protests, allowed Deimos to live with her anyway, so Cherile never reacted in such a way. His morning presence in her bed was just a given, something expected and accepted by the girl. For those months Deimos was spoiled – unconditionally wanted and cared for, no judgements attached. A love spell, he thought later. That was Discord’s theory, at least. Even years later, firmly together and in love, Discord could say the most hurtful of things, though they were, he begrudgingly admitted, often true. His relationship with Cherile had been the outlier – a partner who tolerated every mistake he made. Clearly someone had cast a spell, and since Strife had told them Aphrodite was alive, it was clear to Deimos that his mom had finally intervened after all.

* * *

It was early 2000 when Deimos faced his most awkward of awkward mornings, waking alone in his cousin Strife’s bed in Milwaukee after their very first, post-resurrection hook-up. Technically, it was their second intimate encounter.

Deimos’ first time with Strife was a hazy memory from before the Twilight. His coupling with the older god – who scared Deimos more than he could adequately convey to the people who found Strife laughable – was not more physically intimate than the quick exchange of hand-jobs. The intensity came from the fierce way Strife slammed him against the wall and bored his icy gaze into Deimos’ own widened, frightened eyes. The god’s hot breath on his neck, and the way he whispered in Deimos’ ear all the vile things he could do to him. Strife’s rough strokes that made Deimos come hard and fast. The pleasure was far too fleeting, leaving Deimos stunned and craving more. Then Strife grabbed Deimos’ wrist to guide it to his own body, fucking into his fist.

Deimos had gone looking for Ares in the Halls of War when he found Strife there alone, lazily sprawled on the steps to the war god’s throne, sharpening a knife about as long as his forearm. Deimos couldn’t remember years later what his cousin asked him or said in greeting, just that Strife suddenly propositioned him, telling Deimos he was curious about the half-love god’s slutty reputation. How good must Deimos be, he asked, for so many regretful lovers to have bedded him in the first place? What was his secret? Before he knew it, the raven-haired war god was on his feet and backing Deimos towards the grey bricks, his penetrating blue eyes dismantling him, examining Deimos head to toe, trying to parse out what made him so desirable. (_Nothing_, Deimos thought. _What could this incredible dark creature possibly want with me?)_

Strife’s own thoughts were inscrutable, but the smug grin Strife gave him when Deimos fell apart gave some idea. Strife liked toying with people and messing with their heads – he liked feeling powerful. Deimos’ biggest clue was how Strife kept his steel blade in one hand the whole time.

Like Deimos had done to avoid conversations, Strife teleported away after, leaving Deimos slouched against the wall breathing heavily - breeches undone and hand soiled – wondering what the fuck had just happened. Deimos never saw Strife again after that. Callisto killed him, and with him dead, Strife’s fearsome persona was immortalized in Deimos’ brain - the god’s body count, his crimes against Hercules and his stellar sexual energy all added to the older god’s mystique. Discord was the first person to tell Deimos that no, Strife had been a huge loser and so was Deimos if he wanted to emulate his dead cousin so badly.

* * *

Deimos groggily wakes in Strife’s bed in Milwaukee, steel knives in his dreams. He’s alone and still mostly dressed in unbuckled jeans, socks and white undershirt, his clothed legs tangled in the sheets. The comforter has been thrown on the floor, and the digital clock says it’s mid-morning. He knows it’s Strife’s room and not Discord’s because he recognizes the wall posters and photographs Strife has pinned up, and Discord’s mirrored vanity is missing. Without opening his eyes, Deimos knows it’s Strife’s room because it smells like his cologne.

Deimos urgently needs the bathroom, but that undoubtedly means he’ll run into Strife and Discord. Memories return of Strife's warm mouth and coming embarrassingly quick. His cousin is laughing at him, surely, as he likely did when they were gods. Deimos has no proof Strife finds this laughable – now or back then - but insecurity still twists Deimos’ gut.

Sighing, Deimos gets up to face the music. Maybe Strife has gone to work and won’t be in the kitchenette with Discord, drinking coffee and gossiping. Strife had not returned to bed and probably slept in Discord’s room. Without Strife, his queen-sized bed provided generous room for two, and Deimos and Discord both fell asleep on their backs. As they had for years, Deimos kept no tighter hold on his lover than one hand on her forearm - their heads on separate pillows, but close enough that strands of her long hair still brushed his cheek.

Deimos quickly and quietly uses the bathroom without first checking his cousins are still home. The flushing toilet will betray his presence soon enough. After washing his hands and rinsing his face with cold water, Deimos dries his cheeks with a hand towel and psyches himself up in the mirror to look Strife in the eye and say…and say…

What is he going to say?

“H-hey,” he stammers, finding his cousins positioned exactly as he imagined, perched on two stools on either side of the kitchen counter. Strife is distractingly underdressed in boxers, socks and an open button-down – the same shirt from last night. Strife’s clothes are all in his bedroom, and apparently, he didn’t think it worth disturbing Deimos to retrieve fresh ones.

Discord, on the other hand, is fully dressed and sipping iced coffee. She must have gotten changed and gone out, while Strife has been here the entire time, letting Deimos sleep. Deimos isn’t sure what to make of it. He isn’t sure what to make of anything Strife does. His cousin is still a mystery. A scary, sexy mystery Deimos wants to solve.

“Hey, asshole,” Discord greets Deimos, slurping her coffee through a straw, and Strife’s eyes shift from Deimos to her, his lip quirking in amusement.

Deimos takes a deep breath, and when Strife’s eyes return to him, their gazes lock and Deimos swallows.

“Uh…”

Strife cuts in sharply with, “Look, last night was fun, and I wanna do it again sometime. Here, have a donut.”

Strife gestures to the box of donuts on the counter. Deimos blinks, taken off guard by the words _“I wanna do it again.”_

Deimos must be making a face, because Discord starts laughing. Strife slaps her arm and glares at her, shutting her up.

“Discord,” he scolds her, “you’re gonna give the boy a complex.”

She shrugs. “We’ve been together for two decades. The damage is done.”

Strife sighs. He licks his lips and says, “I wanna get this all out of the way now so there’s no misunderstanding.”

Discord slurps her coffee, looking amused. Deimos feels a twinge of anger. She’s not the person he expected to be mocking him.

“I can tell that you’re feeling a bit vulnerable and—”

“Chickenshit.”

"Quiet, Discord,” Strife snaps. To Deimos, he continues, “Uncertain, because I suddenly pulled you into a situation last night without discussing what you wanted first.”

Strife pauses, and Deimos nods slightly in acknowledgement.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and this throws Deimos for a loop. His surprised expression almost makes Discord laugh again, but she restrains herself, slurping more coffee instead.

“I’m sorry I kissed you without asking for permission. I’m sorry I held you down and—”

“Blew your brains out,” Discord adds, unhelpfully.

“Pleasured you, without asking first. Please accept my apology. I wanted to explore the attraction I felt between us and have some fun.”

Deimos’ jaw drops, stunned.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he says, shocked, remembering the Strife who roughly grabbed him in the Halls of War, knife in one hand and his cock in the other. “I wanted you so, _so_ badly. When I woke up, I was...I was afraid you’d make fun of me.”

Deimos looks at Discord for some indication this is what’s happening, that this sincere admission of guilt from Strife is just an elaborate prank. She just shrugs and bites into a donut.

Strife smiles. “Good. I want you too.” He glances at Discord.

“I told you so,” she says smugly.

Strife probably asked her how Deimos would react, and she knew how enthusiastic Deimos would be. Strife is being mature – and far too human – discussing consent like this, and next steps that aren’t just “drink shitloads of wine and fall into bed, then see what happens.”

Deimos’ mind flits over all kinds of possibilities – things he and Strife can do alone, and things he and Strife can do with Discord, which is probably why discussing consent is important to Strife right now. They don’t act like it - and Deimos tries very hard not to think about it - but Discord is Strife’s mother. Which is fine, because Deimos would gladly date them both separately. It’s when stuff like last night happens that things get tricky.

* * *

The closest thing to lust Deimos felt for his own mother was when Aphrodite was casting love magic to make people want her. Even then, in those moments, Deimos wanted to be like his mom more than he wanted to fuck her. She usually took the form of a light-skinned, fair-haired woman dressed in skimpy silks – a vessel ordinary-looking enough to be mistaken for a mere human. But at full power, Aphrodite was stunning – a brightly shining creature so otherworldly, she was the most beautiful being in existence. She usually relied on her reputation as a benevolent deity, but in a pinch, a spell like this could bend the mind of any mortal, demigod or immortal in her presence, making her seem as powerful as the creators of the universe. It was a parlor trick, and such an incredible surge of desire couldn’t be sustained long. Aphrodite still needed to court worshippers with her actions and word-of-mouth, not solely with a blanket spell. But Deimos had been zapped with it before and fell to his knees in worship of the goddess, even though he knew who she truly was and how fake she could be.

Deimos didn’t _want_ her though, not exactly. He craved her affection and approval more than ever in those moments - to be as beautiful and lovely, as admired and adored. The Goddess of Sex and Love was old – far older than she let on, and more powerful than even she knew. Being her son put great stress on Deimos’ self-esteem, because he could, if he tried, compete with Strife, Cupid or even Phobos. Deimos was confident he could out-match Discord, if push really came to shove. Eventually Deimos would do something that garnered his father Ares’ favor. But he couldn’t ever be what Aphrodite wanted. Deimos was too callous, too psychotic, too unhinged and far too addicted to violence.

Observing the lives of humans, Deimos thought his relationship with his parents was fairly normal. There were parents who got along with their children, whose bonds were close and love unconditional, but there were also parents whose children grew up to disappoint. Family members might see the world so differently that they gradually edged apart, resenting each other. Sibling against sibling, parent against child, and child against parent. Love wasn’t truly unconditional. Love had plenty of conditions. Being held at arms’ length by his own parents wasn’t a unique experience – many unlucky mortals experienced it every day. Deimos and Aphrodite weren’t close and would never be close. There was no way Deimos could relate his experience to Discord and Strife’s.

Discord and Strife were close in age – only one thousand years apart. Strife’s father was out of the picture from the start, because Discord didn’t know who he was. Discord raised Strife on her own, the two of them against the world until they began working for Ares. The God of War’s divided attention was the first crack in their relationship, his unequal treatment alienating the pair from each other over the years, until the day came that Discord could comfortably call Strife an idiot who was better off dead.

Deimos couldn’t remember what their dynamic was like as gods, just that they seemed to act like friends, making some people uncertain how they were related. All Deimos knew for sure was Discord was devastated by Strife’s murder. In the daylight, she had shrugged and said it was no great loss. After several bottles of wine, she confessed Strife’s death broke her heart.

Strife has always looked older than Discord, and in the present, their features are so similar he could be mistaken for her older brother. They give off a sibling vibe as well, and nobody could ever guess they’d shamelessly kissed the night before. At least, that’s what Deimos seems to remember happening. Maybe not. Deimos is pretty sure one of them jacked him off while the other one swallowed his—

Deimos blushes, remembering. He also remembers an especially fucked up encounter he’d had with Discord before the Twilight. It was some time into their affair – maybe twenty years, perhaps only fifteen – and Deimos had fallen for the crazy witch, so he was forgiving of Discord’s weirder idiosyncrasies by this point. They were fucking when she asked him to shapeshift, and if he’d been in any clearer state of mind, he’d have refused. But she was looking so lost and so desperate, he had no choice but to comply.

“Keep the eyes,” she said, running her hands through his hair as it lengthened and darkened. She touched his cheek gently, saying, “But can you…can you lighten your skin?"

Propped up on his elbows, Deimos stopped fucking her. With an uncomfortable, bitter edge he said, “What are you askin’ me, Discord?”

“Please.”

Her voice was soft, small, and he knew exactly what she was asking for. He knew as soon as she jokingly asked him to blacken his hair - and it felt wrong, but when he changed form, she smiled, tears in her eyes.

_Don’t say it,_ he thought._ Don’t say it, don’t say it, please don’t say it._

Sometimes, in the early days - usually while on jobs for Ares - she would call him Strife. She would quickly amend her mistake, however, and as the years went by, it happened infrequently. And okay, that had been understandable. She was so used to barking orders at the boy, and the cousins were superficially similar. In bed, it was another matter. In bed, intentionally, _while roleplaying…_

“Do this for me,” Discord pleaded, and it wasn’t so bad at first – Deimos liked the way she smiled at him, the affection in her gaze - until she used her strength to flip them over. That’s when things went from awkward to disturbing.

Deimos blushed furiously - and he blushes now, remembering. He was a war god – fucked up things like this shouldn’t bother him. And he loved her, despite everything, so fucked up things Discord did or said shouldn’t bother him either.

Two things weren’t unusual – the pair were switches who both had praise kinks, so Discord writhing on top of him peppering him with compliments wasn’t weird, it was downright sexy.

Discord doing this while calling him Strife was something else.

It didn’t kill his erection, per se, because there was no way Discord on top of him wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever seen, but it did make him less than enthusiastic about fucking her. He hoped she’d come soon and get it out of her system, so he could take a long, hot bath, and never mention or think of this ever again.

“Deimos…”

_Oh thank Nyx, she’s using my real name._

“Yeah babe?”

“Call me ‘Mommy.’”

Deimos’ blood ran cold.

“Huh?”

“Please, just say—”

“Yeah, no, um, I—”

“Come on, Deimos, I’m almost there.”

“Uh—”

Discord leaned down and whispered in his ear the lines she wanted him to say, and it was just a couple lines, really, no harm done. This was just some playacting, and their union was fucked up already. She was his mother’s sister, for Nyx’s sake, and this wasn’t any worse than that.

Deimos’ revulsion had a deeper source - Strife was a man he had known, a man he admired, and a man whose body he knew intimately.

A man who was _dead_.

Deimos did the only thing he could do to make this sick charade less disgusting. He flipped Discord on her back and took over – he recited her script, but with his own spin. He didn’t softly beg for her gentle maternal care. It sounded too creepy, and nothing like the man whose hands he could still remember on his own body. Deimos wasn’t a child, and neither was Strife when he died.

She didn’t want that Strife anyway, he guessed. She could top Deimos any day - every day for the rest of eternity, if she wanted – if she used his real name. If Discord wanted Strife back by her side - for a moment, for a night, for fifteen brief minutes – she’d get a strong war god taking care of her. Garner respect the man had never received in life, the man she missed so fucking badly she’d coerce her lover to shift into his form.

“Gods, Mom, you’re so fucking gorgeous. I’m gonna take real good care of you, Mom, okay? Your son’s gonna get you there.”

_Turn this game around and make her come so hard she can’t walk. _

“Strife—”

“That’s it, Mom.”

_“Strife!”_

* * *

In the present, Deimos blinks away the memory, donut halfway to his mouth.

“Strife,” Discord is saying, “go get dressed. We’re going out to lunch.” To Deimos she says, “That is, if you want.”

Deimos nods. He gestures towards Discord’s bedroom. “Uh, my stuff—”

“Is in there. Take your time.” Discord smiles and kisses his cheek. “Relax, this’ll be fun.”

_Did you two kiss or did I imagine it?_

“Yeah. Fun.”

He can’t ask her. Discord’s reaction is unpredictable, and Deimos doesn’t want to piss her off. He bumps into Strife in the hall by the bathroom, and it’s strangely easier to ask Strife himself.

“Did you two—" Deimos whispers. "Did you kiss each other last night?”

Brow furrowed, Strife quietly considers the question. He seems to be weighing the pros and cons of sharing what really happened.

"Yes.”

Deimos tries to keep a neutral expression to hide his disgust, relaxing his shoulders to appear more chill about this than he feels.

“How do you feel about that?” Strife asks. The man is a godsdamn mind reader.

“Like…” Deimos looks around, making sure Discord isn’t in earshot. Lowering his voice, he says, "Look, let me put it this way. Aphrodite's my mom, right? And she's an eleven out of ten, no question. She's a total smokeshow! I _know_ that, but I don't _feel_ it, ya know?"

Strife just stares at him with unreadable ice blue eyes, and Deimos picks at his fingernails, struggling to explain without offending him or making assumptions.

"So I don’t get it," Deimos says, then remembers their drained bottle of red wine. "Unless...unless I’m mistaken, and you guys were just drunk and horny." Strife raises his eyebrows, and before he can respond, Deimos says, "Look, I don’t wanna overstep, but if you and I start dating and Discord wants another threeway, I gotta know what your deal is.”

“I don’t know,” Strife says. “I wasn't really thinking. I was focused on you, then I looked up and she was right there, and I wanted to kiss her. I don’t know why, or how to explain it any better than that.” Strife sighs. “I’m sorry that’s not a real answer.”

Deimos shrugs. “What can I say, man? Love’s weird.” Deimos quickly corrects himself, “Sex is weird.”

“You love her,” Strife says with a smile.

“Against all my better judgement.”

“I love her too.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that. That hot mess needs all the love and support she can get,” Deimos says. “But you could always apologize for that time you pulled a knife on me."

Strife laughs. “Don’t lie, you liked it.”

“Of course I liked it, but it’s still rude to jerk someone off at knifepoint.”

“Fair enough. I’ll ask for—”

“Consent next time. Man, you sure did go native. Discord was right, you’re too nice now. She said you even mailed William Shatner a credit card or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Nerd.”

“Sluts,” says a female voice. Discord approaches them wearing only a towel, links her arm in Strife’s and pulls him into the bathroom. Deimos just about dies on the spot of embarrassment when she drops the fabric to the floor.

“Uh, what are you—?”

“I think she’s winding you up at this point,” Strife says in amusement, as the door shuts.

“What the fuck is wrong with this family?” Deimos yells, banging on the door, but with no real anger. He can hear the pair laughing, then the water turns on. There’s no proof of impropriety - he didn’t see Strife get undressed. Discord must have heard their conversation and is playing a prank.

But the water’s been running for a while, and Strife is still inside.

Deimos needs to shower and has no choice but to wait, and the wait is killing him, not that seeing two former gods who may or may not have incestuous feelings for each other both scrubbed clean proves they did anything sexual. It’s more likely Strife used the mirror to shave his face while they took turns in the shower stall, leaving Deimos in suspense to imagine salacious acts that are not actually happening.

The former god does emerge clean-shaven, proving Deimos’ theory that two semi-incestuous ex-war gods can share a bathroom without anything funny going on. When the giggling ex-gods exit giving him exaggerated winks – by Nyx he hates these two now – he sees just how cramped the bathroom is and how two people using it was done just to mess with him.

“You guys are the worst," Deimos says.

"Oh honey," Discord replies. "You have no idea."


	11. A Little Better All the Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strife and Deimos train, and Discord observes.

**2,500 Years Ago**

Discord materialized just inside the towering stone entrance to the Halls of War and followed the clang of metal and labored grunts to her brother Ares’ training room. It served partly as an armory - along each wall stood racks of weaponry, from long spears to the smallest of knives. Bows and crossbows hung above, ordered by size, with quivers of arrows and bolts. Another wall was entirely covered in shields, and some wooden cut-outs stood at the far end, dotted with holes and nicks from past fired projectiles and axe-throws. 

Ares had painted a circle in the center of the room – not covered in straw or dirt to cushion his student’s falls, just the same hard, grey stones as the rest of the building – and was mid-lesson when she sauntered in to watch, casually leaning against the doorway.

Two gods battled fiercely – one skinny, messy-haired and constricted in a skin-tight black leather suit, his teacher Ares of a similar height but broad-shouldered, wearing an open leather vest. The sweat on Ares’ bare muscular arms gleamed in the candlelight, his long hair flowing free, untied and falling in his face. Discord could see every flex of his bicep as he tightly gripped his iron shortsword in one hand - not a blunt, wooden practice stick, but not his fine-crafted steel blade either. His student held an iron xiphos as well – a straight, doubled-edged, leaf-shaped blade about 20 inches long. Nothing fancy, just good enough for last resort one-on-one combat.

The blade was still pretty sharp though, and she winced when Ares slashed across the younger god’s chest, tearing through the leather.

“Again.”

The student was her son Strife, and Discord knew he was a vicious cheat who could win any unfair fight, but a full-frontal attack by the God of War himself - who was not holding back his strength – roughly pushed Strife out of the training circle each time.

It was hard to tell who was meant to be attacking and who was defending - Strife or Ares. The two gods reset their starting positions, and any stab or slash by Strife was immediately deflected by the older god. It seemed the goal was to remain within the circle, but Ares took graceful steps to dodge Strife’s attacks, parrying his blows and stepping forward to edge Strife out of bounds.

“Again.”

Strife changed up his moves this time, more familiar with Ares’ footwork, managing to swap places. It seemed he had Ares on the defense now, Strife’s blows coming faster, his expression intense, eyes wild.

Ares ducked his head, Strife’s sword whooshing past his ear. The God of War crouched and swung his leg around in a kick that knocked Strife off his feet. Ares stood above the younger god, stepping on his stomach. Strife groaned in pain.

“Too slow. Again.”

The pair returned to starting positions, with Strife slashing just as fiercely but more aware of Ares’ feet. He was paying so much attention to Ares’ feet and the thrusts of his sword arm, that he didn’t track the position of Ares’ free hand, until his fist socked Strife in the gut. Punched with the god’s full strength, Strife cried out in pain and doubled over, crumpling to the floor.

This time, he struggled to sit up. Ares pointed his blade at Strife’s neck, saying, “Too slow and you’re dead.”

Strife scoffed.

“Gods can’t die.”

Ares returned his sword to its scabbard. Strife held out his hand for Ares’ help getting up, but the older god tucked his arms behind his back, slowly circling Strife like a carrion bird.

“A cocky attitude like that allows your opponent to cripple you. You don’t want to be crawling around trying to reattach your head. Any lost time is a lost battle.”

Wincing, Strife pushed himself upright, clumsily rising to his feet. Ares tutted in disapproval.

“Showing pain is weakness, and gods don’t feel pain.”

“Tell that to my gut.”

“The intensity fades with age. Soon a blade through your belly will feel as painful as a pinprick.”

Clutching his abdomen, Strife replied, “Yeah, I doubt that.” Hands on his knees, Strife wheezed, raising one finger in a gesture saying to give him a minute.

Ares stepped closer - probably to whisper in his ear what a failure he was - when Strife suddenly drove his elbow backwards into the older god’s stomach. Taken by surprise, the blow pushed Ares back slightly and he hissed. Strife spun around quickly – showing no signs of pain, lip quirked in a subtle smirk - raising his arms defensively to combat any retaliation by the God of War. Then he looked past Ares’ shoulder and smiled. Clutching his side and scowling, Ares followed his gaze to see why.

Discord gave Strife a brief nod of approval, then gestured for him to come closer. She slapped his right hand with hers, in what Aphrodite called “high-five.”

“Nice work, kid.”

Seeing no threat, Ares relaxed his shoulders. He rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation.

“Discord,” he said sourly.

“Ares.”

“Don’t dole out too much praise. I thought you believed in negative reinforcement.”

“And I thought you believed in five-minute breaks. You spend enough time with your leg looped over that stupid chair doing fuck-all.”

“I’m working my ass off training your brat to be a warrior!”

As they argued, Strife remained pressed to Discord’s side, and when she approached Ares, trailed just behind her. A little cowardly, perhaps, but Discord thought it understandable, considering what a beating his uncle had given him while sparring.

“I thought I’d take a turn today.”

Ares shrugged. “Your skills aren’t exactly useful on a battlefield.”

Discord bristled at that.

“Oh no? And what about torturing prisoners to gain information? Executing traitors?”

Discord pulled a small knife from her sleeve – she wore a bracer on each wrist and covered one arm completely in a blend of lace and leather and used this extra fabric to hide weapons. She handed it to Strife, who gleefully took the blade and slashed the air. He looked a bit silly with nobody there to cut, but could still effectively demonstrate the quick, clever moves she had taught him.

“Shall I find you a subject suitable for such a lesson?” Discord asked Strife.

“I dunno,” he said, gesturing towards the door with the knife. “Maybe we could go out in the field today instead?”

Smiling, Discord clapped her hands together.

“Excellent idea. Ares? Got anybody you need killed?”

Ares shook his head, returning their swords to the weapons rack. With a snap of his fingers, his damp skin and hair were clean of sweat. A pity, Discord thought. The effects of physical exertion looked good on him.

“I need no one tortured today,” he said. “Nor do I wish you to flay anyone alive. I have a simple assassination that needs to look like a human did it. Over the years, Strife has gotten better and better at torture thanks to your sadistic instruction. Now you must teach him how to foment chaos with subtle actions. That’s your bread and butter, isn’t it Discord?”

“Sounds exciting,” Strife said. “When do we start?”

“Immediately.”

Ares waved his hand, manifesting a map in the air between them. He pointed at a specific spot, explaining who they sought and where to find him. Discord nodded along, elbowing Strife to pay attention when he played with her knife, distracted. He was grown now, and even his vessel appeared a few years older than Discord. The apparent age difference was small, and they could be mistaken for siblings. It made her son’s childishness all the more embarrassing, but with each deadly trick learned and dark impulse encouraged, Strife’s role as war god was progressing nicely.

During their mission, the pair couldn’t act quite so impulsively as they sometimes did. Discord spent a long while merely observing the guards, staff and residents of their target’s castle to see who could take blame for the murder. Strife grew antsy, and Discord could relate to Ares’ frustration.

“Quiet!” she said more than once. Though the pair stayed outside the realm of mortals’ perception, Strife occasionally required reminding.

“You ever consider using dream magic?” Strife asked, when night fell, and the pair watched their target prepare for bed.

“That’s Morpheus’ jam,” Discord replied. “He knows more about that stuff than I do.”

“I want to learn. Do you think you could put a good word in?”

Discord scoffed. “You think Morpheus talks to me?”

“I’m just lookin’ for a letter of recommendation.”

Discord smiled slightly. “I think he’d take an apprentice like you.” After a beat, she added, “I don’t talk to Morpheus because I don’t think he likes me much.”

“Why ya say that?”

“He gives me bad dreams.”

“Guess that’s why you don’t sleep.”

She shrugged. “Don’t need it.”

“Don’t want it, neither.”

“No.” Discord sighed, shaking her head. “No, I don’t.”

* * *

**Many Decades Later**

“He’s just not…quite…”

“Right?”

Standing alongside her loathsome sister Aphrodite, Discord observed her nephew Deimos from afar, watching him and his fraternal twin Phobos awkwardly interact. Discord kept her distance because Phobos was teaching his brother how to manifest people’s fears, and the idea of either young god getting to reveal her own deep secret made Discord’s heart beat fast, filled with the overwhelming desire to flee the room. No, she couldn’t be afraid of insects or heights like a normal person, she had to be struck by the terror of death, a silly fear for a goddess to hold.

Deimos reached out his hand, and after a few minutes of concentrating so hard he broke into a sweat, a fuzzy, friendly-looking spider the size of a small dog appeared, blinking its eight beady eyes curiously. Deimos pumped his fist, pleased with his success. He looked to Phobos for a reaction, whose red eyes betrayed nothing, but Phobos nodded slightly in approval. He waved his own hand, swiftly summoning a larger, more disgusting nightmare creature - its eight legs the size of saplings, covered in coarse black hair with sharp, dripping mandibles. Deimos’ shoulders slumped in defeat.

The two illusionists had been at this all day. Discord patiently remained a spectator because both Aphrodite and Ares had requested her opinion which vocation Deimos should pick, and the goddess had been curious herself. Discord still wasn’t sure. Deimos had a boorish personality unsuitable for a love god like Cupid – whose rebellious streak served as complication enough - but Deimos also lacked the edge the son of Ares should have.

Her son Strife had displayed hints as early as infancy - first destroying property, which was frustrating to repair, and hurting small animals, which was disturbing to witness. But Discord was delighted because these things also proved Strife had potential to be a successor to the God of War. So, Discord slowly introduced deadly tricks into Strife’s early schooling, first as games and later as proper lessons - in weaponry, then magic, and finally in con artistry.

Early in his childhood, Aphrodite and Ares named their son Phobos the God of Fear. He didn’t require much training, naturally gifted, a dark presence in any room without trying. Every horrifying vision the silver-haired, crimson-eyed Phobos conjured – his specialty being psychological manipulation – Deimos could replicate but in a cuter form. Deimos snapped his fingers in frustration, struggling to change his magic’s color as well. With time, his golden sparkles gradually turned orange, then red. His brother Phobos didn’t use hands at all, he could silently imagine what he wanted to create. Phobos had formulated hand gestures to match each spell for his brother’s benefit.

“You spent too long trying to shape him into his brother,” Discord told Aphrodite, meaning Cupid. Aphrodite exhaled, sounding exasperated.

“Stop reminding me,” the love goddess said testily, and Discord could see she felt guilty enough without the constant reminder.

Discord scoffed. “Look at this pathetic display. If you had given him to us earlier—”

Aphrodite cut her off, “No! Absolutely not. You had taken Phobos from me. I wasn’t going to—he’s not—He wasn’t like—”

“Strife?”

Aphrodite turned, walking away from the painfully slow lesson. Phobos was easy-going and patient with his brother. Unlike Ares, the fear god knew that skills took time to master. The two young gods would continue tweaking Deimos’ illusions until they were less embarrassing, and gods did not grow tired, so they may be at this all night, if not all week. Discord followed her sister outside.

Aphrodite took a deep breath in and smiled. There were trees, birds and flowers outside the dank castle, brightening the love goddess’ mood considerably. Discord decided to pop her happy bubble by continuing her line of questioning.

“You don’t see the resemblance?”

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. Everyone does, and nobody shuts up about it!”

She was growing frustrated, and the anger had been building for some time, especially now her son and Strife’s vessels looked the same age, like a human in his mid-twenties.

“They look nothing alike, Discord. He’s not—he isn’t—”

“You’ve never been at such a loss for words, Sister.”

Aphrodite’s sputtering almost-sentences were unusual, the bubbly goddess known for her blunt honesty, at times for self-indulgent chatter.

“Pale, gaunt, dark-haired and creepy. All sunken eyes, sharp teeth and bloody grin.” Aphrodite gave Discord a disgusted once-over. “Ugly, like his mother.”

Discord laughed. “You’ve not spent much time with the boy, have you?”

Strife was only scary when he tried, and most of the time he was giggling with glee at the stupidest things. Strife had a wide, friendly smile that contrasted his eerie appearance, to the point it had become a problem. Discord tried to school him in frightening faces, but it was slow-going, even after centuries of practice. Strife loved sickening violence, but he also loved beer, comedy and music. Discord and Strife sometimes took a break from bloodshed by watching foolish humans throw concerts or plays and zap them with pranks that sabotaged their shows without killing anyone. If it started a fight and the mortals hurt each other, all the better. It was fun. They had lots of fun, when no one was watching to judge them.

“Let’s see,” Discord said, ticking off each point with her fingers. “Blonde, arrogant, annoying, effeminate, with a terrible fashion sense and sparkly magic. I can see your point. Deimos is a male clone of _you_.”

Discord approached Aphrodite, leaning closer to the taller goddess.

“But have you looked in his eyes?”

Aphrodite frowned.

“Have you seen the way his face lights up when he watches forests burn?”

Aphrodite squirmed uncomfortably. Discord had pitched her voice low, taunting.

“The shape of his skull, his jaw, his brows. Features so similar they could be identical twins. All these things are merely superficial.” Discord smirked. “But what about their sick delight when someone’s hurting?”

“Stop it,” Aphrodite snapped.

“Cupid is petulant, impatient and rude, and Phobos is a quiet monster. You have no children like you, do you? Or _are_ they? Is there something there from your side after all?”

“Get out of my head, Discord.”

Discord stepped back, hands up in innocent surrender. “Alright, fair enough. You’re right, it’s not my place. That’s Phobos’ job.”

Aphrodite bit her lip, looking over her shoulder at the door, no doubt imagining what horrors Phobos was teaching his brother inside.

“He’s not a bad kid,” she said, meaning Phobos. “It’s just who he is.”

“So let Deimos be himself too.”

“But who _is_ he?” Aphrodite asked, and Discord had no answer. “I loathe saying this, but you may be right. I waited too long to push him. Do you think Ares would still take him?”

“Not like this,” Discord said. “He’s not ready. Besides, Ares likes Strife better.” Discord frowned, grumbling, “He likes Strife a little too much, if you ask me.”

“Mm,” Aphrodite replied neutrally, Discord’s implication unspoken. Ares had too many solo sessions with Strife for Discord’s comfort, but her son was grown now, and fucking the God of War was a mistake he was old enough to make. Discord wished it didn’t enrage her so much. She just didn’t want the boy hurt.

“I suppose Phobos is a better teacher, anyway,” Aphrodite said.

“But Phobos can’t fight. Deimos is better at punching and kicking and tearing out hair than he’ll ever be at fear magic, and he needs someone to show him proper form.”

“Strife, maybe?”

Discord shrugged.

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“Strife doesn’t really have the patience to teach anybody anything.”

Aphrodite thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers and said, “Enyo!”

Discord’s brow furrowed, forgetting who that was.

“Enyo?” said Aphrodite incredulously. “You don’t know Enyo, the war goddess? You’re practically the same!”

Discord felt the faintest stab of confused fear. The idea she had a doppelganger somewhere was startling.

“She has a different territory,” Aphrodite explained, “and she isn’t—Ares hasn’t really been speaking to her lately, so—”

“We have another sister?”

“Not exactly, she just…lives over there.” Aphrodite gestured into the distance unhelpfully, in a northwest direction. “She’s not Hera’s daughter, and I’m not sure she’s Zeus’ either.”

“When the fuck did this happen?”

“She’s old,” said Aphrodite. “Very old.”

“How have we not met?”

Aphrodite shrugged. “You tend to stick to the same circles, Discord, and you don’t like working with other gods.”

Her sister had a point. Discord worried so much about her place in the Pantheon that she didn’t reach out for help with anything. She knew from working with Strife and Ares that she could succeed if she worked on a team, but the idea of sharing credit turned her stomach.

“Go seek Enyo out and see if she'll instruct Deimos in fighting. She’s killer with a shield and spear. It’s impressive watching her fight, and she’s really good with horses, too.”

Discord was good with knives, but not with swords or fists, and certainly not spears or horses. Aphrodite’s clever idea made Discord ashamed she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“I'll let Ares know.”

“No!” Aphrodite snapped, then said more calmly, “No, just take him to Enyo yourself. I don’t want Ares to see Deimos fight until he’s more skilled. I worry he'll dismiss our son entirely.”

“Honestly, Sis, it may be a long time before he mentors anyone but Strife,” Discord said. “Strife has…unique qualities that Ares finds useful.”

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. “Let me guess, Strife is good with his mou—”

Discord cut her off, saying, “Yes, and so Deimos is at a disadvantage. Ares isn’t quite so deviant as _that_.”

“I hear he isn’t very good anyway,” Aphrodite said. “I get complaints.”

Discord cringed. “Gross! People actually told you—?”

“Love goddess, remember? I can hear people’s thoughts.”

Discord laughed. “Well I don’t envy that power! Hmm, maybe Enyo can teach him that too.”

“A bit inappropriate, don’t you think? Besides, Enyo doesn’t swing that way.”

“Someday Deimos will make you proud,” Discord said. “He just needs some unlucky soul he can practice on.”

Aphrodite laughed. “That poor woman!”

“Or more likely, some unfortunate man.”

“Perhaps you can take on such a challenge.”

Discord gagged. “I’m not taking your son’s virginity, Aphrodite. Not even to spite you.”

The sickening scenario was making Aphrodite giggle. Like son, like mother.

“Hmm, that might be pretty funny, actually.”

Discord side-eyed her sister, who wouldn’t be opposed to casting a spell on another goddess. Pointing a sharp nail at her, Discord said threateningly, “Don’t even think about it!”

Suddenly, the sisters heard a deafening roar from inside the castle, followed by Deimos whooping in joy – no doubt at his success conjuring a new horrific creation. His triumphant shouts were soon cut off by his own screams of terror.

“And that just about says it all,” Discord said, crossing her arms.

Aphrodite nodded. “Sure does.”


	12. Falling in Mutual Weirdness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deimos finds out why he's Discord's last option to get laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter's title comes from this quote by Dr. Seuss: “We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.”

The best moment to bleed an honest answer out of Discord was right after making her come. It was the easiest way to loosen her tongue, next to getting her good and drunk. Short of two gallons of Dionysus’ wine to pour down her throat, the right twist of Deimos’ fingers was the second most reliable method to make her talk.

Discord was a loud fuck – though not nearly as loud as he was – and he’d been warming her bed for what, ten or fifteen years? Twenty? She entrusted Deimos with her secrets, possibly unaware she was even doing it. Discord was talkative before sex, during and after, usually blathering about the same old bullshit - spouting impossible plans to become Queen of Olympus or get petty revenge on some rival. Or Ares. Often, she just ranted about Ares.

The real deep-down secrets, though? Those she kept especially close to her chest. One question Deimos asked himself frequently niggled at his thoughts – he was becoming obsessed with finding out its true answer - and if he pressed, Discord responded with a joke or flippant reply.

But Deimos found the key to unlocking that vault. Yes, tonight he’d fuck her well, and fuck the truth right out of her. It was the sort of challenge Deimos relished, because nothing beat seeing the tough-as-nails goddess fall to pieces in front of him - indistinguishable from a vulnerable young girl barely 20 years old and at his mercy. He liked Discord powerfully dominating him too, of course, but nothing compared to having the smaller goddess beneath him, blanketing her body with his superior height. He could feel her hands scrabble at his shoulders, wrapping her short limbs around his neck and waist, desperately hanging on while he accelerated his thrusts to pound her petite frame into the mattress.

Discord didn’t beg, though. She liked when Deimos begged for her release himself, his gentle pleas and encouragements transforming into harsher commands as she grew closer to orgasm. He didn’t know why she responded so eagerly to praise in these moments, he just found it delightful to see the goddess so undone by three little words. _You’re so good._

They’d swapped places at some point, Discord on top. The ideal choice for tonight’s plan, in fact, since this way she came more easily. Discord was the expert in her own pleasure, after all, and while she welcomed being fucked, she climaxed faster while riding him.

The goddess was stunningly beautiful as she approached the edge and crested, until that magical moment she made a stupid face – cringing through her ecstasy, as though in agonizing pain - and gasped for breath, trembling all over. Her hands clenched, digging her fingers into his chest as her muscles tensed and then released. The sight made him fall along with her, surely making his own dumb expression, not that he could control it, or the sounds wrenched from his throat.

Discord loosened her grip, leaving white marks on his skin from her dug-in fingers. She looked sweaty and tired – more like a human than a deity – raggedly sucking in air, as if she actually needed it. Though they were gods, there was still something to be said for having corporeal bodies - allowing themselves to be overcome with both pain and pleasure, the bliss of orgasm worth any discomfort that preceded or followed it. That lingering ache after a rough fuck, or the bruises from a battle - the satisfying exhaustion that came from using all her strength to best her enemy. Whether fighting or fucking, the war goddess craved every sensation. She was insatiable.

Discord rolled over and stretched out next to him, keeping her usual post-coital distance but absently allowing their elbows to brush. He’d just been buried deep inside her, but the goddess disliked cuddling. Deimos wanted to bury his nose in her hair, taking deep breaths of her scent and sated lust. Wrap his arms around her and pull her close, envelope her in his embrace, claim her as his. Instead he gave her forearm a casual friendly pat, before withdrawing his touch, and Discord responded positively to light, brief touches such as these. She seemed to enjoy having his warm presence next to her – close, but not too close - and for Deimos that would have to be enough.

As Discord regained her senses, the window to ask his question was closing. It was now or never, and Deimos could phrase his inquiry any number of ways. He wanted to know how deep her feelings for him went, and whether they could even deepen at all.

Instead, he blurted, “Why does this keep happening?”

Deimos stared at the ceiling - pointedly avoiding her eyes - affecting his question with more incredulousness than he felt. Deimos knew why _he_ was sleeping with Discord. She checked off all the boxes for a partner he desired – passionate, vicious, scary and fun. When they weren’t fighting, he thought they made a good team. And when they _were_ fighting, she was a frustrating adversary who was still damn good in the sack, and he couldn’t hate a frenemy like that.

Yes, Deimos knew why he kept fucking her, but Discord’s own motivations bewildered him. She’d never liked him until Zeus died, dismissing him as inconsequential. Deimos was another useless cousin too pointless to acknowledge - until Strife died, and he finally drew Ares’ attention. That development riled Discord up. After their fight for the Rock of Argius, Discord actively thwarted all his efforts to curry the God of War’s favor. She told Deimos he was a jackass, but still found him to be a threat. Then Xena tumbled off a cliff and Ares stopped caring about either of them. Discord turned her affections for Ares towards Deimos, a surprising choice that still shocked him years later.

So. With all that history, why did she keep bedding him?

Without opening her eyes, Discord yawned and replied offhandedly, “Because it’s refreshingly uncomplicated.”

_Uncomplicated, _Deimos thought. _Uncomplicated? As if! _

Discord was a confusing tangle of contradictions whose desires were an enigma and whose unstable moods were at times quite literally deadly. She switched from hot to cold on a dinar, and Deimos was never quite sure if her fiery gaze meant he was about to be kissed or stabbed.

Deimos scoffed. “Discord, your picture is drawn next to the definition of ‘high maintenance.’”

Discord quickly clarified, “_You’re_ refreshingly uncomplicated.”

_Oh._

Deimos sat up, leaning against the pillows, looking down at Discord and examining her face closely. Was she making another joke?

“I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment.”

With a weary sigh, Discord rose to sit beside him, gathering their discarded sheets to clothe her nude body. Disappointing, Deimos thought, to lose that view, but it was a clue she was about to say something that made her feel vulnerable. A vulnerable Discord needed her armor.

Discord regularly covered herself in layers of cloth, leather and iron that took the better part of an hour to unclasp without magical aid, arming herself with hidden weapons in dark pockets, frizzing out her black hair like an angry cat’s fur to make herself seem bigger. Now she draped her small body in an off-white sheet, bending her legs to wrap her arms around her shins. She rested her chin on one knee, slightly turning her head to face him, but mostly averting her eyes. Discord licked then pursed her lips, thinking about her next answer.

“It’s like this,” she said, after a moment. “I’ve got four options. Human lovers, who grovel and scrape and worship me. Who are either terrified of me, or put me up on a pedestal. Like I’m something otherworldly, a powerful force.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Deimos interjected, genuinely, truly envious of Discord’s fearsome reputation.

Discord groaned. “It’s exhausting! To them, I’m their goddess, not a bedmate.” She shook her head, clenching her fingers in the sheets in frustration. “There are expectations I need to meet. A certain way I need to carry myself, to be everything they think I am and want me to be. The deity I need them to believe in. I’m their one brush with the divine! What if I fart or make a weird face or can’t come or can’t make _them_ come?”

Deimos reached for her shoulder, intending to comfort, then thought better of it and withdrew his hand, instead making the gesture to stop.

“Whoah, slow down with the—with the hypotheticals, there, sweetheart.”

Deimos had kept up with Discord’s concerns so far – he also felt pressure to match the idealized picture humans drew in their minds of their gods - but her nervous list of fears threw him. They were his own rattled thoughts when he bedded her. How absurd, he thought, for a goddess to worry she couldn’t satisfy! Especially a mere human, who she could strike down with nothing more than a single, air-blown kiss.

“What if I kill them?” she asked.

Deimos paused. Yeah, that was…a fair concern.

“Now _that_ is a real problem,” he said. “For the humans you fuck. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you. A single human here or there is expendable.”

Discord huffed a laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“So you keep saying. Okay, then what’s your second option?”

Deimos watched Discord lay back down, pulling the sheets tighter around her body, glowering at the ceiling.

“Another god. And there, I have the opposite problem. Nobody takes me seriously! They look down on me, judge me. Treat me like I’m garbage.”

“I can relate to that.”

“I make even the slightest hint of interest in someone and I get laughed off. Even the lesser gods want nothing to do with me. Not since Troy.”

“Who needs those jerks? Not you! They’re worthless punks!”

That got a slight smile from Discord.

“What’s the third option?” Deimos asked, thinking now she’d finally get to naming him. After all, that was where this was leading.

If Discord could sink deeper into the mattress, it seemed like she would. The fierce goddess looked small, and not in the way Deimos liked. He lay on his side facing her, propping his head up on his elbow, keeping his expression open and curious.

“Ares.”

“Ah. Right.”

Of course, how could he forget the God of War? Discord would passionately rant about him stone-cold sober! Her obsessive infatuation was no dark secret – she’d nearly killed Ares’ son Evander in a fit of jealousy of his mother Nemesis, desperate for scraps of Ares’ attention. She cavalierly dismissed Strife’s death, just to weasel herself back into Ares’ favor. She used all her energy to tie Deimos to a godsdamn tree and split his mind in two. Twice! He still got migraines.

“Too much baggage,” Discord was saying, her mouth twisted in a bitter scowl. “Too much heartbreak. Higher expectations and even harsher judgement.”

Half-listening, Deimos nodded along to her explanation, her words not entirely landing, the God of War’s name repeating over and over in his head in Discord’s resigned voice, a voice that made the answer so obvious. _Of course_ she wanted Ares. He was…he was _Ares! _The only reason they weren’t together was because Ares didn’t want _her_. Again, something Deimos couldn’t understand. Why would Ares _not_ want her? Why didn’t the other gods? And why wouldn’t whatever human follower who saw her mask drop, revealing the girl beneath the war goddess? A girl who just wanted to get dicked down by someone who liked her for _her?_

“And the fourth option?” he asked.

“You.”

Discord rolled over to face him, looking almost…guilty? It was the closest to remorseful he’d ever seen Discord’s face. Perhaps “embarrassed” was a better description. Yes, she was embarrassed he was her only remaining option to get laid.

“Look,” she said. “I know it sucks being last choice, but…”

_Last choice?_ That sounded right, but Deimos thought about what she’d said more carefully, as comprehensively as he could with Ares’ name still resounding in his head. Discord didn’t want a human because they held high expectations, she didn’t want a god because they only held low ones, and she didn’t want Ares because he held both? So that meant Deimos was actually…?

“You really get me,” she continued. “It’s easy to just be myself and have fun around you.”

Now that…That was new.

The significance of this confession dawning on him, Deimos’ face spread into a pleased grin. In a sing-song voice, he teased, “You _like_ me.”

“I didn’t say that I—”

Risking a slap to the face, Deimos poked her side playfully.

“You _like_ me, like me.”

Discord squirmed away from his touch.

“Deimos—”

“You hear that Olympus?” he said loudly, announcing to the empty bedroom, “The Goddess of Discord likes me!”

“Enjoy the compliment now,” Discord said, blushing. He’d made the war goddess blush! “Because you’re not gonna hear any again.”

A transparent lie, because the goddess complimented his large cock and skilled fingers on a regular basis. Granted, that wasn’t the same as admitting he was the only person in the world who understood her, who she felt safe to be herself around. To be vulnerable and let loose, with no fear of judgement. Discord’s real admission was that she knew that he liked _her_, and that made him not her last option, but her first.

At least, that’s how Deimos chose to interpret her statement.

Discord threw off the sheet and stood up, waving her arms to fully re-equip her armor. Her black nails grew into sharp points – she blunted them during sex so she could finger herself or Deimos without injury. Sometimes during play she kept them long, to create deep, red welts in his skin. She controlled the length, the benefit of magical cosmetics.

With another wave over her face, Discord reapplied her makeup and straightened her hair. Deimos risked a scratch from those ten slender knives and grasped her wrist, pulling her to him, almost tumbling her back into bed. He drew their lips together, shoving his tongue in her mouth. Discord was no stranger to his sloppier kisses, so she didn’t pull back in disgust, just made a muffled sound of surprise. With a loud smack, Deimos withdrew, his smile wide, not bothering to hide his joy.

She grimaced, wiping her damp chin. “You smeared my lipstick, you ass.”

Deimos laughed and Discord rolled her eyes.

“I gotta go,” Discord added, stepping away. “See you never.”

“Yeah right,” Deimos said. “You’ll be back in my bed in a week.”

She scoffed. “You wish.”

With a violet shimmer, Discord teleported away. Deimos lay back down, sinking into the bed and sighing with pleasure. He had his answer, and what an answer it was! He’d pierced the Goddess of Discord’s impenetrable armor.

Sure, it wasn’t a love confession, but it was better than nothing. He didn’t love her anyway. What a ridiculous concept! Discord was his reluctant ally, his sometime-fuck buddy. Dare he say it, but Discord was his _friend_. Gods could have friends, right? Nothing forbade that. It had been an insane idea only a few years ago. The God of Terror didn’t need friends, he didn’t want friends, and the Goddess of Discord was his enemy first and foremost.

Then why did his stomach fill with butterflies when their gazes met? When she gave him a smile rather than flash an angry glare? Nothing thrilled him more than her watching him while he came, when their eyes locked in his final moments just before orgasm, the satisfaction in her gaze tipping him over the edge into ecstasy. Her grin saying, _I did this to you, and now you are mine._

They’d just had sex, but Deimos could come again just imagining it. He couldn’t wait for her return, whenever that may be. It could be weeks, months or years. They didn’t plan their trysts, they just happened. And they kept happening. Because he understood her, and she could have fun.


	13. The Kid Who Came With the Wallet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deimos sure is something, but he's nothing like his brother Phobos. The Olympians all comment on how different the twin Gods of Fear are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1877, two of the planet Mars' moons were named Deimos and Phobos. 
> 
> Allegedly, there was a real life cult that worshiped Phobos.
> 
> The title comes from the Rodney Dangerfield joke - "I'm so ugly my father carries around a picture of the kid who came with his wallet."

**2,300 Years Ago**

"I don't see a resemblance."

The God of War stood with his arms crossed, head tilted slightly in thoughtful puzzlement, watching two little boys about five years old play. They were alike in age, height and build, but with different facial features. One boy had short, combed silver hair that constantly seemed to shift in color each time you glanced away. The other boy’s hair was more normal – light blonde and messy.

"Well they're, ya know, fraternal twins,” said the Goddess of Love.

The silver-haired boy sat still on the floor playing with some blocks she’d left out for him, levitating them like young gods sometimes did to practice their telekinesis. Similarly, his brother - after failing to convince the quieter boy to join him in a race from one wall to the other – decided to challenge himself instead, seeing how far he could teleport. He tried to attract his twin’s attention, but the boy was focused on building a small pyramid. Without looking, he ran into Ares, who grunted in annoyance. The child shrugged apologetically but teleported away without saying sorry.

"That one’s the spitting image of Discord's kid,” said Ares. “Acts kinda like him, too. Won't sit still or stop moving. I don't think I've seen his brother blink once."

"They’ll probably be more alike when they're older,” said Aphrodite.

Ares pointed to the calmer child playing on the floor. "That one gives me the creeps."

The active twin suddenly materialized, bumping into Ares, and this time the boy gleefully laughed.

"Watch it!” Ares snapped. He turned to Aphrodite. “The little shit kicked me!"

“Language,” she chided. “And he barely touched you.”

Before Ares could grab him by the ear and teach him manners, the boy was gone. While Ares fumed, Aphrodite watched their other son with concern – Phobos was so different from his hyper twin Deimos and their older brother Cupid - and asked Ares, “What should we do about Phobos?"

"Hmm,” he said, considering. “The child fills a person with dread with a single glance, so let's call him the God of Fear.” Phobos looked up at them with two glowing red eyes. It made Aphrodite shiver. “He'll be powerful,” said Ares. “I can tell."

"I wish one had been a love god like Cupid,” she said with a sigh.

Ares shrugged. "Jury's out on what Deimos will choose."

"We won't choose for him?"

"Maybe he swings both ways."

"So do we,” she said with a smirk.

"I mean between Love and War."

"Oh, right,” Aphrodite said. Suppressing her fear, she bent down and smiled at little Phobos, plucking one floating block out of the air and placing it on top of his toy pyramid. “It was a bit iffy what Cupid would choose,” she said, “but look at him now, making matches and bringing people together.” She stood up, and with a disgusted snort, added, “Unlike our chaotic sister and nephew. Ugh!"

"They serve their purpose."

"You mean_ your _purpose."

“What can I say? I like to delegate."

With a red shimmer, Deimos reappeared, knocking over his brother’s toy pyramid. He was having trouble pinpointing where he wanted to jump.

“Sorry!” he told his twin, panicked. It was the first apology from his lips - not to his imposing, God of War father, but to the small, unassuming young god on the floor. With a nervous wave of his hand, the blocks righted themselves. The boy immediately teleported away. Phobos looked at the blocks with a frown not unlike his normal expression, but his eyes seemed to glow slightly redder.

"Oh honey,” said Aphrodite affectionately, ruffling his silver hair. “Can you close your eyes for just a little while?"

"Why Mama?" the boy asked.

“Because you're giving me chills.”

“You'll be a powerful god, Phobos,” Ares said. “People will worship and fear you."

In a small voice, sounding sad, Phobos replied, "But I don't wanna scare people, Daddy."

"Sometimes we can't choose who and what we are."

Deimos popped into view again, startling Ares.

“What kind of god am I gonna be?" he asked excitedly.

Ares pursed his lips, thinking. Aphrodite shrugged at Ares, then gave the boy an awkward smile.

"We're not sure yet, Deimie,” she said. “You're still young."

"Probably like your cousin Strife,” said Ares. To Aphrodite, he added, “And what a shame that would be."

"What?"

"If he's just like our useless nephew."

Aphrodite covered Deimos’ ears. The boy squirmed and pried them off.

"Shh!” she said. “Don't say that!"

"What? Negative reinforcement builds character. Everyone needs to be good for something. A useless god is a dead god.” Ares turned to Deimos. “Ya hear that, kid?"

Sounding frightened, Deimos cried, “I don’t wanna die!”

“You’re not going to die, sweetie,” said Aphrodite.

“Just because he’s immortal, doesn’t mean he’ll be remembered.”

“You’re gonna eat those words, Ares.” She turned to their son. “You’ll be downright terrifying, Deimos. Humans will name planets after you, just like us.”

Ares scoffed. “Planets? They named planets after us because we’re members of The Twelve. Don’t get the brat’s hopes up.”

“A moon, then,” said Aphrodite. “They’ll name a moon after you. And you too, Phobos. Two beautiful celestial bodies, flying through the sky.”

“Or two ugly floating rocks.”

“Hey!” Aphrodite protested. “The planet they named for you is just one big, dead, red boulder.”

“And yours is covered in a swirling cloud of poisonous gas,” said Ares. “Though I suppose it’s the thought that counts.”

* * *

**Many Decades Later**

Cupid sat beneath a tree airing out his wings - with his bow by his side, he slowly sharpened his arrows, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on his feathers. Suddenly Deimos materialized with a red shimmer, much too close and startling Cupid. He almost stepped on Cupid’s stack of freshly sharpened arrows - though made of stronger stuff than ordinary wood, they still risked being snapped beneath a god’s boot.

“I’ve got it!”

“What the—?”

His little brother backed up and began to pace back and forth with manic excitement. Frowning, Cupid gathered his arrows together and stuck them back in their quiver.

“I figured out my title,” the younger god said, “but before I go around using it, I want a little feedback first.”

“Why did you—What in Tartarus compelled you to come to me first? Why would I ever_, ever_ want to speak to you after all the shit you’ve pulled? Not to mention all the people you’ve killed.”

“Collateral damage,” Deimos said with a dismissive wave. “This time I was trying to kill Hercules.”

Cupid rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, “Right.”

Deimos stopped pacing. With a scowl, he said, “Our introduction didn’t go so great. He thought I was Strife.”

Deimos scoffed, as though such a mistake was unbelievable. It wasn’t. Other Olympians had often drawn that comparison, even the people who had been closest to their deceased cousin – his mother Discord and uncle Ares – who knew Strife well enough to know he and Deimos differed in many ways. It made sense that Hercules would make this mistake at first. Strife hadn’t been a stranger to shapeshifting.

Deimos continued ranting, “I was like, ‘Ha! Joke’s on you! He’s dead!’ And Hercules was like, ‘I’m terribly sorry, my condolences’ and I was like ‘I don’t give a shit, you’re gonna be joining him,’ and Hercules was like, ‘I don’t think so’ and—”

“Skip to the end.”

“I might have set a building on fire.”

Cupid sighed, stood up and gathered his bow. He would have to find somewhere else to relax.

“Let me guess, Hercules got everybody out before it collapsed.”

“Well, no,” said Deimos. “There was this one old dude who was all like, ‘I’m gonna stay behind! Save the rest!’ and then everyone was really, really sad, but, ya know, them’s the breaks.” He laughed, its pitch rising to a shrill cackle.

“Has anyone ever told you that you laugh at the most inappropriate—”

“And then it dawned on me, my purpose, and I can’t believe I didn’t think of this like two centuries ago. Ya know how our brother Phobos is the God of Fear?”

“How can I forget?”

Deimos raised his hands, as though spelling his new title out on a sign.

“Get this - Deimos, God of Terror!” He laughed. “More specifically - intentional, indiscriminate violence against civilians. It’s perfect. Fits like a glove.”

“I suppose that tracks. There’s just one problem.”

Angrily pointing his finger in Cupid’s face, he growled, “Don’t you dare ruin this for me!”

Cupid ignored the forceful digit, and casually leaned on his bow.

“You’re terrified of everything.”

Deimos looked affronted.

“You mean I terrify everyone.”

“No, I mean you’re scared of your own shadow.”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“For starters, you jump when you’re startled.”

A crow landed on a branch above them and cawed as if on cue. Deimos let out a shriek.

“See what I mean?”

Deimos snapped his fingers and the crow’s branch caught on fire. The bird flew away in fright.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, looking around for any more surprise avians. “I’ll just, ahem, stay a bit more hands off, like our brother.”

“Dude, you would last, like, a day,” said Cupid with a chuckle. “You crave the attention.”

Moving on from the topic of being too scared to scare people, Deimos said, “Look, you start with a really cool title, like God of Terror, and you build your persona out from that, ya know? It’s a work in progress. But you like that? God of Terror? Has a nice ring to it.”

Wanting this conversation over, Cupid said, “Sure, whatever, knock yourself out.”

Cupid prepared to fly away - far away from his brother and this entire unwelcome exchange - when Deimos leaned in close to whisper, “What do you think—umm--What do you think Ares will say?”

He looked nervous at the prospect of his father judging and rejecting him. Picking a title was a big deal for a god, especially so late. It was doubly important to Deimos, who every day for the last three hundred years had people tilting their heads to the side and asking when Strife decided to go blonde.

“Probably the same thing,” said Cupid. Trying to sound more encouraging, he added, “But try it out, just project confidence. Say ‘Ares, I want to be the God of Terror.’”

Deimos smiled and said, “No, no, no. I’ll say ’Ares, from now on I’ll be _known_ as the God of Terror.’” He laughed. “This is gonna be great!”

“Good luck, bro.”

“Thanks!” Deimos said, teleporting away.

Shaking his head, Cupid said under his breath, “Idiot.”

* * *

** 15 Years Later**

_SHWICK_

There was a sickening noise of metal carving through flesh, then the thud of a blade hitting wood. People gasped and some cheered as the sharp sword came down, cleanly severing the head of the unlucky man being sacrificed.

“Ouch,” said Discord in mock sympathy. “That’s gotta hurt.”

“I don’t get it,” said her nephew Deimos.

“What is there to get?”

“What’s so special about Phobos that people are cutting off heads and, like, dismembering cows and covering their faces in blood and stuff?”

Discord raised an eyebrow, saying, “Seriously? Have you met your brother?”

Deimos turned and walked away from the gruesome scene. He didn’t look repulsed by the brutality either, just resentful that humans were so eager to commit violence in his twin’s name but not his own.

“He’s not exactly easy to find,” Deimos said. Discord disagreed.

“Oh, really?” she asked. “What’s that feeling you get every time you jump off a cliff?”

He scoffed. “I don’t jump off cliffs.” Which was a lie, because Discord had talked him into doing that just last month.

“When Hercules shows up to kick your ass?” Confronting the troublesome demigod was another thing she knew made Deimos’ heart race.

“That doesn’t bother me. I can take it.” He held up his fists, as though boxing the demigod.

Discord chuckled. She had a good one.

“When Ares is mad at you?”

Deimos stopped walking, considering this thoughtfully. He never admitted the war god’s wrath terrified him, or that he was a bit scared of Discord herself.

“Hmm.”

“That’s him, that’s Phobos.” Recalling a time Deimos showed off his powers to her in a tavern, she said, “You know that spell you showed me, when you manifested people’s fears?”

“Yeah?”

“You both have that ability, which I gotta say I was not expecting,” she said, genuinely impressed. He had even scared her that day, pinpointing the one thing that terrified her most – a dirty trick she wouldn’t let him pull again.

“But here’s the difference between you and your brother,” she continued. “He does that all the time, just by entering a room. And you think that isn’t worthy of worship? What was your biggest scheme? Embarrass a little Amazon tribe?”

“Uh, no!” he said. “I was gonna overthrow Zeus and single handedly take over Olympus, thank you very much!”

Like his father Ares and his cousin Strife, the young god had big, impossible ambitions.

“You gotta keep it small, kid. Build up a following.” Discord gestured behind them, to the God of Fear’s shrine. “Like your brother Phobos.” He wasn’t an outrageously popular deity but was still a highly respected one.

His confidence suddenly and completely sapped, Deimos cried, with what appeared to be actual tears, “I can’t compete with him! It’s hopeless.”

Deimos crumpled up on the ground pathetically. Discord stood beside him and patted his head.

“You’re doing better than Strife, at least.”

“Yeah, right,” he said sarcastically. “How?”

“You’re still alive.”


	14. They Forgot That Their Eyes Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discord and Deimos fight over who gets to keep a phoenix egg, and an irritated Aphrodite is caught in the middle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place ten years after S5E19 of XWP, "Looking Death in the Eye," and fifteen years before S5E20, "Livia."

“Hey there, skank.”

Aphrodite stood outside one of her new temples, examining its beautiful facade, when she heard a voice. She looked around, then glanced up. Her sister Discord precariously sat atop a column, smirking down at her. The goddess often sat, stood or perched in high places, probably because she was so short and needed an alternative way to intimidate.

“I thought I smelled something funky.”

Discord scoffed. “That’s your own disgusting scent. Your perfume makes me gag. Clearly someone’s overcompensating for not bathing.”

“Oh, honey, I’m not compensating for anything. I’m not the one who wraps my body in thick leather and never washes it.”

Discord jumped down and made a graceful landing on one knee. She stood up slowly, and Aphrodite lightly clapped.

“You didn’t fall on your face. Amazing,” Aphrodite said sarcastically. “That’s too bad, because a good smack could rearrange that ugly mug into something scarier than just slapped-on slutty eyeliner.”

“Eat me, hosebag.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t eat pork.”

Discord rolled her eyes.

“Look, this is fun but I’m actually here for a reason.”

“Fun? Insulting me is fun?”

Discord gestured to herself.

“Hello? Goddess of Discord?”

“Fair point. What’s your reason for harassing me?”

“Your son.”

Aphrodite shot her a look that was a combination of disgust and confusion.

“Cupid? He’s a sweet boy and he has a lot of work on his plate. I don’t think he’d be up for scheming with a villain like—”

“Your other son.”

“Oh, he’s just kinda floating around. I don’t really know where—”

“_Your other son_.”

Aphrodite crossed her arms and said with a huff, “What about him?”

“He has something I want, and he won’t give it to me.”

Aphrodite snorted a laugh.

“Oh, I bet he does.”

“Not that,” said Discord defensively. “Eww! I would never!”

Aphrodite, who had basic mind-reading skills, knew that was a boldfaced lie. _So does anyone with ears_, she thought. Aphrodite could also sense love, and whenever she was around the pair, deep beneath the malevolence and evil that wafted off them, was a pink cloud of affection for each other.

Maybe she or Cupid had enchanted them as a joke and forgot to reverse it. That wasn’t unlikely.

“What is it?” Aphrodite asked. “‘Cause I’m busy, and helping you is the last thing I want to do.”

“He has – he _stole_ – a phoenix egg.”

“So?”

“So, I’m the one who found it, the egg is rightfully mine. But I can’t get him to give it back. Maybe if someone he trusts,” Discord gestured to Aphrodite, “convinced Deimos to retrieve it from its hiding place, I can swoop in and snatch it.”

“Why would I help you steal a phoenix egg from my kid?”

“Because he stole it first.”

“Why should I care? It’s just a bird.”

“Just a bird?” Discord said, holding up one finger for each point. “It’s immortal, it’s an amazing pet, and it would be great for my image.”

Irritated, Aphrodite replied, “Discord, I just don’t care. Besides, there are easier ways of stealing the egg without involving me.” She pointedly glanced at Discord’s chest, then back to her face. “Giving you compliments physically pains me, but I gotta say, Discord, those puppies aren’t bad motivation.”

“Fine,” Discord said. “Don’t help. But all you gotta do is ask him nicely how his day went, and the dumbass will hand you the egg himself. You don’t know this, but for some reason, he trusts you’d never lie to him.”

“That’s crazy,” said Aphrodite. It was the first time she’d heard such a thing. 

“Go ahead, ask him. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What can you possibly do to repay a favor like—"

“I’ll leave you alone for a decade.”

“Deal.”

* * *

“Deimie,” Aphrodite called. She wasn’t sure where to start looking for him, or where Deimos typically hung out, since he didn’t have his own temples, but she thought following a trail of fire-wracked villages near Thrace was a good start.

Her other son Phobos – his twin brother - had a vicious following. Worshippers made bloody sacrifices to him, even performing beheadings. Phobos was depicted on shields and in artwork, and the God of Fear’s mysterious raw power likely garnered such devotion. Deimos tended to show up in person and immediately dispel any illusions he was terrifying or worthy of worship. Any humans expecting a firecracker like Discord, a brute like Ares, or a demon like Phobos were often sorely disappointed.

“Deimie!” she hollered, and her son materialized, this time as a turquoise bubble that slowly grew then popped to reveal his humanoid form. Sometimes his glimmer was red, and he appeared and disappeared in a bright cloud of color. Lately it was the bubble, and it was an unusual way to teleport that didn’t surprise people like Discord, who knew his origins were unusual as well.

Like having the Goddess of Love as his mother.

“Hey ‘Ditee,” he said, his voice extra chipper to feign being happy to see her. She had interrupted whatever plan he had to torch another village. A woman and her child looked in their direction, and Aphrodite waved a spell to make sure they stayed invisible.

“Hi Deimie!” she said, her tone sounding equally fake. “How ya been?”

“Oh, you know, busy.” He said, flexing his hand meaningfully. His fingers glowed orange briefly, then went back to normal, like lighting then dousing a candle. He idly repeated this gesture.

“Good, good, me too. Listen, I just wanted to check in and see—See how you were—What is it?”

Deimos had tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at her. Suspiciously, he asked, “Where’s Discord?”

Aphrodite scoffed. “Discord? My bitch of a sister? I have no idea. Off skinning puppies or something. I came here alone, just to see how my son has been doing. No other reason.”

Deimos looked doubtful, but Aphrodite approached him and took his hand, gently patting it.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, and part of Aphrodite wasn’t lying. The tiny part that could still picture him at one hundred years old, finally grown into the form before her and making the choice between love and war. Also, with the choice of outfit. He had rarely changed his general look, maybe some details here and there, over the last two centuries, and wow, somebody needed to intercede pronto and fix that shit.

“You too, Mom,” said Deimos, still squinting at her suspiciously. Aphrodite linked her elbow with his and started walking away from the village, as if this were any other nice family visit and not a plot cooked up by Discord, or distraction from hurting more innocent humans.

“So, what have you been doing for the past ten years? We haven’t seen each other since…” Aphrodite trailed off, frowning. “…what happened.”

Neither said it aloud, but it had been ten years since Hercules killed Zeus and Athena killed Xena.

“Yeah, that was—uh--that was—Never mind.” He awkwardly cleared his throat. After a brief serious moment, he said with a grin, “Ya know, I haven’t _really _seen you since that whole thing with the Kronos Stone.”

Aphrodite stopped walking and glared at him.

“You were a slimy scumbag, taking advantage of those Amazons!”

Deimos protested, “It was _your_ spell, 'Ditee! It was entirely _your _fault, _brainwashing_ them to follow any man’s command! Anybody coulda swooped in and mind controlled them. Hell, someone might have done worse than a couple musical numbers and some light excavating.”

Aphrodite unlinked their arms, turned and jabbed his chest with her finger.

“They were working day and night digging up that stupid stone for you. And in that time, someone could have raped them.”

“See? I told you there were worse things than kicklines and rock quarries.”

Aphrodite made a loud, frustrated noise.

“Ugh! You’re unbelievable.”

“It was what? Twelve years ago? Puh-leaze. Water under the bridge.”

“Why do all war gods lack remorse?”

“Don’t wash your hands clean of what happened, ‘Ditee,” Deimos said. “Fighting with your husband ain't an excuse for one of the ‘good guys’ to enchant helpless humans. Or do you not care about right and wrong?” He laughed, not his usual high-pitched shriek, but a low, cynical chuckle. “The Goddess of Love, the most petty and spiteful of us all.”

“Are you quite finished?” said Aphrodite, feeling like she’d been punched in the gut. It was the same sort of mind manipulation Discord employed. Two birds of a feather.

“Look, I’ll cut to the chase,” she said. “I heard you have a phoenix egg, and I’d like to see it.”

The malice in Deimos’ expression melted, replaced by a soft fondness. The shift was uncanny. Discord had been right - he really did like when his parents took an interest.

“Oh,” he said, looking slightly guilty he’d goaded her so hard. “Yeah, uh, word travels fast, eh?” He giggled. “Ya know what, you’re not a bad goddess, ‘Ditee. We’ve got more in common than you like to think.”

Aphrodite muttered sarcastically, “Don’t I know it.”

“I’ll let bygones be bygones and show you, okay? Ready?”

Deimos held out his palm and materialized a glossy green egg the size of an eagle’s, two by three inches in size. A genuine smile spread across Aphrodite’s face. She reached out to touch it, but Deimos withdrew his hand.

“No touching, just looking. Ain’t it a beauty?”

“Very pretty, and they’re incredible creatures, aren’t they? Phoenixes. They live forever.”

“Technically,” Deimos said, lightly touching the egg with his fingertips. “They die and are reborn. Over and over. Pretty lucky break.”

“Yeah, pretty lucky,” said Aphrodite. “Why do you want one again?”

Deimos shrugged. “They look cool. Imagine one on my shoulder while I’m—ya know—”

“’Setting shit on fire?’”

“Yeah, that.”

“Please may I hold it, Deimie?” Aphrodite asked. “I’ll give it right back.”

Deimos said, “Fine,” and handed the egg to Aphrodite. “Careful with it.”

Aphrodite held the egg gently between her hands and smiled.

Then Discord materialized next to them, grabbed the egg and teleported away.

“Dammit, Mom!” Deimos screamed. “I asked you if Discord was here.”

Discord rematerialized in a nearby tree, the short goddess going for heights again. Deimos wasn’t tall enough to reach her, nor lightweight enough to sit on the branch beside her. She held up the egg between two fingers carelessly, as though threatening to drop it, but Aphrodite assumed she knew what she was doing.

“The phoenix is mine now, idiot,” she said tauntingly. Deimos ran over to the tree and tried to jump up and grab her foot.

“Get down here and give it back!”

“You stole it from me first!” she shouted. Aphrodite rolled her eyes.

“That’s enough, children!” she commanded. Ares would call the two of them - three, when Strife was still alive – children all the time, even Discord. In Aphrodite’s defense, her sister was only two thousand years old, still a young woman, and Deimos was a baby at only three hundred.

“The egg is mine now!” Discord shouted, with an evil cackle.

“Not for long,” said Deimos, pacing beneath the tree like a jungle cat.

“Oh, my gods,” Aphrodite said, annoyed. “Stop flirting and just fuck each other already!”

Both gods turned to glare at her. Their cheeks reddened in embarrassment, because they knew they’d been caught.

“Yes, I know. I’ve known for ten years,” said Aphrodite, in reply to their unasked questions. “Give me the egg,” she told Discord with a sigh, because neither of these idiots should be raising such a remarkable creature. “And go bang his brains out.”

She met Discord’s betrayed look and raised an eyebrow, saying, _Seriously, girl?_

After a few moments of awkward silence, Deimos told Discord, “Just give her the stupid egg.”

Discord looked shocked.

“What?”

“I said give her the damn egg!”

Discord held the egg to her chest protectively.

“How about we share joint custody and you can visit him when he hatches,” Aphrodite said, half-joking.

“Fine,” said Discord, dropping the egg. Aphrodite rushed forward to catch it. Her sister teleported out of the tree to Deimos’ side. While she was checking the egg for cracks, they didn’t notice that Aphrodite saw Discord take his hand.

Rather than teleport as separate glimmers, violet and green, respectively - or red if he felt like it - Discord and Deimos dematerialized in a blend of colors, and Aphrodite’s eyes widened at the odd sight.

“Weird foreplay,” Aphrodite muttered, tucking the phoenix egg in her bra. But that was her job, like it or not. Getting stupid people laid.


	15. A Matter of Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ares angrily asks Aphrodite to remove the love spell she cast on Discord and Deimos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place fifteen years after S5E19 of XWP, "Looking Death in the Eye," and ten years before S5E20, "Livia."

“Aphrodite!”

The God of War’s deep bellow echoed throughout her temple before his physical form materialized within it. The disembodied voice was pure fury, a storm that would terrify any creature, human or god, loud as a thunderclap, with a hint of violent rage.

The god appeared in a swirling cloud of blue smoke, and as a man he was an imposing figure. Scowling and projecting an uneasy menace, one hand rested on the hilt of his scabbard, and the god seemed itching for a fight. He was tall, broad-shouldered and clad in a black leather sleeveless vest that hung slightly open, showing off a tan chest and bare arms, wrists wrapped in thick silver bracers. His trousers were black leather as well, held up by a silver studded belt. The god had short cropped black hair, a goatee and handsome features.

“Aphrodite!”

He repeated the shout, a summons for the goddess to appear and face him. Turning around, Ares took in his surroundings. Figuring she would keep eyes and ears on her most important shrines, he chose her temple in Corinth to confront her. The light grey stone had been painted with patterns of many bright colors, and a large marble statue of the goddess stood in the center of the room. Vases displayed around the temple, resting on short tables, showcased various scenes of humans worshiping the goddess, humans doing various tasks, or humans making love to each other. A massive altar sat at the front of the temple, loaded with offerings of flowers, fruits, jewels and small idols of the goddess made of gold. Every other bare surface had been covered in white candles, giving the room a soft glow.

The goddess had been called twice and still not appeared. In his anger, Ares considered smashing one of the vases to get her attention. Aphrodite hated nothing more than being disrespected.

“I’m gonna count to three!” he said, picking up a small ceramic pot. Ares didn’t oppose breaking Aphrodite’s stuff, but didn’t push his luck by choosing a larger object. They were the oldest second-generation gods in the pantheon, and Aphrodite was as powerful, if not more powerful than himself. Pissing her off led nowhere he wanted to go.

“Alright, alright!” said a feminine voice. In a shower of gold sparkles, the goddess materialized, one hand outstretched to take the pot from his grasp. Ares gladly handed it over, his frown turning into the briefest of smirks. Of course touching her stuff would get her to show.

The goddess was about a head shorter than him, with long blonde curls that draped her shoulders and provided more coverage than her shawl. The cloth barely covered her pink leotard, its color a similar pink but more translucent substitute for a robe. With a slender waist, long legs and large bosom, she was a flagrant show-off. Despite oozing sexuality, Ares viewed the love goddess only as a sibling, almost his twin in some ways, though they had different mothers. Ares had looked upon her with lust only once, and to this day he blamed Dionysus for it. That guy mixed some strong drinks.

“What is it?” she snapped, placing the pot back on its stand. She adjusted its position until it looked perfect. Hands on her hips, Aphrodite gave Ares an appraising look, trying to figure out what his answer would be.

He didn’t keep her hanging long.

“It’s our son.”

Ares had only lusted for her once, and the product of their union was probably the stupidest, most disappointing god on Olympus. He was acting strangely, though, and as a concerned parent and employer, Ares felt it his duty to tell Aphrodite and demand she fix things.

“What about him?” Aphrodite asked, and she was a damn good liar, because she was batting her eyes at him like an innocent bystander who wasn’t a manipulative witch. Ares almost didn’t want to voice it, his anger turning into frustration.

“You will lift the enchantment you’ve cast on him at once.”

Aphrodite looked confused, saying, “Huh? I didn’t cast any spells on Deimie.”

“Ah-ha!” said Ares, catching her. “How did you know I was talking about Deimos?”

Aphrodite rolled her eyes.

“Probably because nobody’s seen Phobos in over a century. And I’m pretty sure that kid is almost as hard to enchant as he is to find.”

Ares could spot their son sometimes out the corner of his eye. He’d feel his presence, and see flashes of his worst phobias, sometimes. The God of Fear was always out there, somewhere, doing his job.

His brother Deimos, on the other hand…

“Lift the enchantment.”

“What enchantment? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aphrodite’s acting was good. He’d have to drag the truth out of her.

“The one on Deimos and Discord.”

Ares paused, still reluctant to share what he’d seen. Aphrodite nodded, prompting him to continue.

“I caught them together,” he said.

Aphrodite’s eyebrows raised, but she didn’t seem surprised.

“They were…” Ares paused again and cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably to his other foot. “They were kissing.”

Aphrodite laughed.

“I thought you were gonna say something a bit more graphic than that.”

“It was disgusting,” Ares spat.

“Oh, come on,” said Aphrodite. “You should’ve seen this coming.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Did you already know? What did you do to them?”

Aphrodite smiled.

“I didn’t do anything. They found each other on their own.”

Ares scoffed. She had to be lying. There was no way she hadn’t been involved.

“I can list three ways this union makes no sense. One, Discord’s a woman.”

“Bi-phobic much?”

“Two, she’s his aunt.”

“After what happened between you and Strife, you’re one to talk.”

“And three, they hate each other. They’re constantly fighting and sniping. Arguing, competing, screwing each other over.”

“And screwing too.” Aphrodite laughed again, musically, like this was delightful and not a disaster.

“You knew about this and did nothing to stop it?”

“There’s nothing to stop. Why not let the kids have their fun? We’re all incestuous, pansexual dysfunctions on legs. I like to think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, which I am, but we’re anthropomorphic personifications. Love and war. Nature and death.” Aphrodite grinned. “Discord and terror. Human conventions need not apply.” Aphrodite picked up a flower and twirled it in her hands, then threw it over her shoulder. “You’re just jealous ‘cause you’ve still got a thing for her.”

Ares couldn’t deny his feelings for Discord strayed towards the sexual. Even romantic, long ago, far back in the beginning. But he could ignore her for decades, even centuries at a time, while Discord's infatuation never waned. It had been fifteen years since Xena died, and Ares couldn’t remember a conversation with Discord during all that time lasting more than a minute.

“Maybe so. You’re very perceptive.” Ares narrowed his eyes. “I find it annoying.”

This only made Aphrodite smile wider.

“Let me show you something.”

She took Ares’ hand and together they teleported to a battlefield far away. Ares rematerialized in a glimmer of blue and Aphrodite in a shower of gold. He let go of her hand and looked where she was pointing, to some boulder in the distance overlooking the bloody battle. Two figures were slightly visible, and with a squint Ares could zoom in to see a clearer image that almost made him sick. He covered his eyes.

He snapped, “Aphrodite!”

Ares heard her say awkwardly, “Oops! Um, sorry about that. I didn’t know they were, um—"

Aphrodite took his free hand and teleported them back to her temple. Ares pushed her hand away.

“I don’t want to see that!”

“Neither do I,” Aphrodite said. “I don’t watch, just so you know. But I catch them sometimes after, and maybe if we wait, like, five minutes, you can see what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t understand,” Ares said. Turned out Aphrodite not only knew their son was sleeping with Discord but had actually spied on them.

Aphrodite looked around, found a jug of wine a human had left and took a sip. She offered it to him, but he shook his head. The love goddess was stalling, trying to pass the time.

Ares sighed. “What did you mean, before?”

“About what?”

“About Discord and…” Ares vaguely gestured to the door, unable to actually point to their son but Aphrodite got his meaning.

“That it’s not a spell. That it’s something else. Something unique. To them, I mean. Humans experience it all the time.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Five minutes are up.”

Aphrodite snapped her fingers and they were on the battlefield again, facing the younger gods but invisible to them.

No longer having sex, Deimos was holding Discord from behind, his arms wrapped around her. They must have just finished, because Discord’s hair was a mess, her breath shallow and eyes lidded. She had a slight smile on her face, a satisfied I-just-got-fucked expression. She reached down to clutch his hand, which still rested on her hip. Deimos had bent her over the boulder, a sight Ares never wanted to see again and feared was burned into his brain. Now dressed and standing, the young god embraced her in an uncharacteristically tender way.

Discord turned around to look up at him, and he smiled, then leaned down to kiss her. They kissed for some time, first lightly and then more passionately. Ares cringed when they started using tongues.

“What am I looking at?”

“Just wait for it.”

Then the pair broke apart. They practically jumped apart, in fact, their smiles dipping into frowns, into serious expressions and professional nods, their glances no more intimate than ones between coworkers. As it should be, Ares thought. A moment of weakness, surely. They would get it out of their system and then go back to normal.

Discord glimmered violet, and Deimos red, and they dematerialized. Show over.

“Nothing happened. They fucked, they kissed, they went their separate ways. What’s so special about—”

Suddenly two bright glimmers appeared, and the gods rematerialized where they had stood before, but not standing feet apart. They were kissing again, their physical forms shimmering and difficult to see at first, before solidifying. Discord had her arms wrapped around his neck, and he was holding her tight, his hands gripping her buttocks. The only way Ares could describe the kiss was that, to them, nothing else mattered. This saccharine display was even more disgusting than the pair fucking. Ares turned to look at Aphrodite, who was watching the gross sight with affection and happiness.

“What even is this? Stop it,” he said. “Make them fall out of love.”

Aphrodite’s expression brightened even more at his slip of the L-word.

“I can’t,” she said. “I have no control over real feelings.”

The love goddess couldn’t even say the word. How ironic.

“Watch this bit,” she said. The pair separated again, and Discord teleported away in her usual cloud of violet smoke. Deimos remained, looking at the space where she had been for a moment, before dematerializing in a shower of golden sparkles.

Ares’ jaw dropped.

“What the--?”

Aphrodite made a gleeful noise.

“It’s so cute when he does that!”

“What the--What?”

“Tomorrow he’ll go back to murdering people and being unpleasant, but it’s still kinda funny and sweet.”

“The—What—how--?”

“I’m a part of him, Ares,” she said. “Don’t forget that.”

Ares collected his bearings. It made sense a god so mixed up inside would have multiple powers, and the shades of their gleams weren’t set in stone. Discord’s was violet but used to be red. Deimos often appeared inside a turquoise bubble, likely another quirk of being Aphrodite’s son. Apollo’s gleam was silver, Artemis was green, and Hera purple. The Goddess of Fortune teleported in a shower of coins. When she was a goddess, Callisto traveled in a burst of flame. And kissing other gods was fun. Kissing after a fuck was nothing, just like kissing beforehand was just a warm-up.

“When did this start?” Ares asked, because yeah, he was feeling jealous now. His son’s powers leaning towards love instead of war didn’t bother him - Deimos fucking Discord was what bothered him, especially since it was so shocking. Surely this was the briefest of blips.

Aphrodite looked like she was trying to remember, and oh no, that wasn’t good.

“Ten, maybe fifteen years ago?” Aphrodite replied, sounding uncertain about the number. “When Xena died, I think.”

Ares blinked. He rarely heard that name spoken these days. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d lost. What his family had ripped from him.

He vaguely remembered Discord hanging around the Halls of War those first few months, until one day she stopped showing up.

“How often does this happen?” Ares cleared his throat, still staring at the space where the two had been standing. “Once every couple years?”

Aphrodite frowned. “Um…”

“Once a year?” Ares asked, hopeful their number of dalliances wasn’t higher. Aphrodite wouldn’t look at him. This was unbelievable. “Twice?”

“Well, more like—"

“Three, four times?” Aphrodite bit her lip. “Once a month?” Ares grew agitated. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! More than once a month?” Aphrodite reluctantly nodded. “Once a week?”

“Yes,” said Aphrodite. “But not, like, all the time! And not until recently.” She sighed and confessed, “Actually, it was three times this week.” She cringed, apprehensive of what Ares would say or do next.

“You’re joking,” he said. She had to be. It wasn’t possible.

“I’m afraid not.”

Ares paced, and resisted kicking the earth hard enough to cause an earthquake.

Hang on, he thought. If Deimos was Aphrodite’s son, then maybe he was just a huge slut, deep in his blood, just like his mother.

“Tell me, Aphrodite, how often are you intimate with Hephaestus?”

“Eww!” said Aphrodite, prudish about her marriage though not about her body. “I’m not sharing details.”

“I merely inquired about the frequency of your lovemaking, not a play by play. Gross!”

Aphrodite calmed. “Oh. Well, I’d say twice a month, but we’re trying to make it twice a week. Sex is very important to me, and last time my husband and I grew apart, well, Deimie got his hands on the Kronos Stone!”

Ares had heard what happened, of course - he forced the story out of Deimos himself. Aphrodite thought casting a love spell on Amazons was a good way to blow off steam during a break in her marriage. It backfired, allowing Deimos to mind control them into digging up a shard of the Kronos Stone. Thankfully Hercules had been there to play marriage counselor, before Deimos could cause any real damage.

“You mean to tell me these two jokers are having more sex than the Goddess of Love?”

“See? I told you. Real feelings.”

Ares suppressed his jealousy - pushed it down deep. It was his own fault. He had ignored Discord for fifteen years, so she turned to the only other god in the pantheon who could keep up with her terrifying intensity in bed. Ares knew humans couldn’t truly satisfy her. Mortals were too fragile.

Plus he looked like Strife. That was a whole other fucked up can of worms Ares never wanted to open.

“Don’t say anything to them,” Aphrodite pleaded, when he raised his hand to teleport. “Please don’t say anything to them.”

Ares made a frustrated noise.

“Fine!” he said. “I won’t tell them that you brought me to spy on them fucking in a field.” Aphrodite blushed. “And then told me all about their affair.” Ares scoffed. “Some love goddess you are.”

“Oh shut up,” she said.

“Gladly. I’m leaving. Lots to do, people to kill.” Ares pointed at Aphrodite. “Keep away from those two.”

As he vanished, he saw Aphrodite blow him a kiss goodbye and give a cheeky little wave.

What a weird fucking day.


	16. Tropes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This purely exists because I had re-blogged something about the "there's only one bed" story trope, then followed it up with this post on my Tumblr blog. And I think it's funny, so it's part of this now.

“There’s only one bed.”

Discord huffed in annoyance and threw her duffle bag onto the floral-patterned double bed, replying, “You can take the floor.”

Deimos tossed his own bag beside hers and said, “No, no, no. I’ve got a bad back. You take the floor.”

She sighed, beginning to unpack her bag. She pulled out a hairbrush, more for something to do with her hands than to tame her wind-blown hair. They’d set off on something humans called a “road trip” in the vague direction of California. Renting a convertible had been Deimos’ idea, because sunburn and knotted hair didn’t occur to him. She’d have to raise the roof later.

“Not a chance.”

“Then we’ll just share. Solved.”

Deimos started rustling around his own bag looking for something, while Discord wandered off towards the mirror.

“I hate sharing.”

“You hate everything.” Deimos appeared behind her in the mirror. “You had fun in bed with me last time.”

“We had two beds and I got to _sleep_ in my own.”

Deimos kissed the back of her head.

“Why will you fuck me but not sleep with me?”

Discord squirmed away from his touch, turning and heading for the bathroom mirror instead.

“Because I don’t like cuddling.”

Deimos scoffed. “What’s wrong with cuddling?”

Discord shuddered. “It’s gross.”

“It’s gross? You’ve had your mouth on my c–”

“Saccharine. Treacly. _Cute_.”

Deimos found in his bags what he was looking for. With a flourish, he showed Discord.

“Maybe you’ll be too exhausted to protest.”

Discord’s eyes widened. “Where’d you get that?”

“Bought it special. Think about it. Or just, ya know, sleep on the floor.”

Discord took the impressively sophisticated vibrator from his hands and said, “I’ll think about it.”


End file.
